


The Hands-On Job

by Soquilii9



Category: Leverage
Genre: Con Artists, Drug Use, Faith Healer, Gen, Male Homosexuality, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 33,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: FOREWORD AND DISCLAIMERThis is a Leverage fanfiction about faith healing.  If you believe strongly in such things, I don't recommend it to you.  I personally think faith healing is a scam aimed at vulnerable people desperate enough to try anything.  Leverage itself brushed the outer edges of the faith healing concept in ‘The Future Job.’I should also mention that the story features male homosexual characters.  There is nothing explicit and no sexuality described in any chapter; hence no archive warnings.  Again, if this is offensive to you, pass it by.This will be my last multi-chapter story, and it will be completed as time allows.  I will continue to write short stories and poetry as Muse strikes.  Going on 73, cataracts and age are making it more and more difficult to write, so forgive blunders, POV errors, etc., et al.  If you see anything that needs correcting, please tell me; some of you have already done so.  Your help is greatly appreciated.  :)Thank you for reading.Story conceived:   May 21, 2018Story completed:  May 30, 2020Soquilii9
Comments: 153
Kudos: 31





	1. John of God

  
[_Open New Tab To Play Theme_](https://archive.org/details/tvtunes_17394)

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

On a Wednesday night Jack Reynard, aided by his valet Henry, prepared himself for evening services at his massive church. He faced the mirror of his mahogany dresser and manipulated his white tie into a perfect Windsor. Donning a large wristwatch, he added several diamond rings to his fingers. Henry clipped a diamond tie clasp to the sparkling white tie and slipped the wire of a small, white microphone down the back of Jack’s shirt, which connected to a battery pack attached to his belt. He then opened the jacket of Jack’s hand-made tuxedo for his boss to slip into and settled the garment upon his shoulders. The tux was the purest white; Jack’s signature color. Henry clipped the microphone to the lapel and brushed the back and shoulders of the tux.

‘Very good, Henry. That’s fine.’

‘You look stunning, sir.’

Jack smiled. ‘Thank you, Henry, I can take it from here. Meet you downstairs.’

Henry left. Jack spun the dial of his wall safe and removed a metal box. From it he took the things he would need for tonight's service.

Jack, born John David Renard, whose high school nickname had been _Jack the Fox_ , had abandoned a misspent youth and set himself upon a different path. While attending college, an old friend of his father's had given him some sage advice. ‘Jack, my boy, if you want to get rich, don't bother with law or medicine. Start a religion.’

Heeding the old man's advice, Jack switched his major from business to theology and began studying Pentecostalism, visiting churches and attending healing services. Over time, he began modeling himself after the likes of Ernest Angley … the Bakkers … Benny Hinn … and especially Reverend Ike, whose oft-repeated slogan, _You can't lose with the stuff I use!_ inspired him to create his own, very unique style of faith healing.

He eventually established his own church and began claiming that God was using him as a conduit for healings. People desperate for cures sought him out. His fame spread across the United States as he slowly built his empire, adding his own unique touches and styling himself as much from an innate sense of theater as a relentless drive to succeed. He now had a dynasty larger than even Kenneth Copeland's; a ministry that was spread across several countries. He owned a mansion, a well-stocked garage with several limousines, two yachts and a fleet of small jets. He eventually married and he and his wife had a son. Having a family had lent gravitas to his lifestyle and garnered sympathy when his wife died of cancer. The fact that Jack never remarried, apparently remaining faithful to his young son's mother, boosted his popularity even more. 

Jack performed healing services twice a week and held private healing sessions in his office or in the homes of those who sought his help. He molded his followers into devoted, dedicated believers who were certain he had been sent from God. _Jack the Fox_ was given a new nickname: _John of God_.

Jack Reynard envisioned a future of very high living, to perhaps retire on an island in the Mediterranean and still be young enough to enjoy it. 

For now, however, it was time for the regular Wednesday evening healing services. He met Henry in the foyer.

‘The car is ready, sir.’

‘Very good, Henry.‘ Jack checked his watch. ‘Well, I best be off. Have you heard from Marcus? Is he coming to the service tonight?’

Henry had been a trusted member of Jack’s staff for many years since before his wife died. To an extent, he had helped raise Jack’s son. 

‘I don’t believe so, sir. He seemed rather reluctant. If you remember, you suggested I speak to him, but I’m afraid he hasn’t taken the advice to heart.’

Jack sighed. ‘He doesn’t take any advice to heart. He’s becoming problematic. The way he is… it’s a disgrace. If he shows up, tell him I want to talk to him.’

‘I will, sir. I hope the service goes well tonight.’

Jack descended the steps to the circular driveway where the driver was waiting.


	2. Healings in the Name of God

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

As the big limousine exited the highway en route to the church campus, Jack turned down the car speakers in the rear seat and powered the sliding window open in order to speak with his driver. 

‘Take a cruise around the front lot before you let me off.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the driver responded, wheeling the big limo around and through the lines of parked cars. Jack was gratified to see the big parking lot was packed full. He turned the speakers back up and leaned back in his seat as gospel music poured forth, setting his mood for his upcoming sermon. The driver steered the car around to the back where baseball and basketball team buses had once offloaded, for Jack had redesigned the sports arena into a church larger than that of any of his fellow faith healers, forever on a quest to _one-up_ them wherever possible.

The choir was already soothing the crowd when Jack entered the building. He went directly to his office to take a few minutes to gather his thoughts and make final preparations. Soon he would burst upon the stage, arms extended to greet his audience, white teeth flashing in a wide grin. A short, serious sermon would begin, followed by the Offering, after which he would perform healings for those who came forward. He would ease their symptoms, at least for a little while. He would give them hope and bolster their faith that the heavenly lottery would smile on them tonight and cure them. He would keep them coming back for more.

The service began. After another hymn sung by all, the crowd slowly hushed, waiting to hear what _John of God_ had to say.

 **_‘Brothers and Sisters!_ ** ’ he began with a flourish. ‘If you were here last week, you may remember that I asked whether you have trouble believing that God still intervenes in the world in a miraculous way. Well, the same question arises today and every day. It's _not_ whether you believe that God can answer your prayers, rather do you believe that he _will_ answer your prayers? Because he _WILL_ ! A- _MAN_!!! Through me, his humble servant, he WILL, I say he WILL, A-MAN!!! BUT! YOU. MUST. HAVE. FAITH!’

'Do you doubt God will listen to you because - perhaps - you don’t think you’re good enough? Do you think to yourself, _I haven’t really been good enough lately to ask him to do that for me; I'm a sinner_. Or do you sometimes make deals with God and then find that you’ve broken that agreement so now you think you’ve blown it? Well, let me suggest that it all comes back in the end to what you think faith IS.’

 _John of God_ paused and looked out at his congregation. 

‘What is faith?’ he continued. ‘Is it hope? Is it trusting in something bigger than you are? Is it blind trust? I say, A-MAN, it is ALL of these things! And if you do not have complete and total FAITH you do not deserve to be healed!! I want to hear you say you have FAITH!!’

As one, the congregation, some with hands raised, eyes closed, swaying in their seats, shouted ‘I have faith! I have faith, _John of God_! Hear our prayer! Heal me! Heal my wife! Heal my son!’ 

‘Then I say that you shall be healed,’ _John of God_ stated simply. ‘Come up. Come up and receive your healing.’

He motioned to the ushers to escort them as they came up the aisles; some in wheelchairs, some on walkers or canes. Some were able-bodied; some had absolutely nothing wrong with them. Some were carried on stretchers by family members. Still they came. 

They were helped up the gently sloping ramp to the stage and lined up in rows. _John of God_ set his small microphone to mute and went down each line to exchange a few words with each person, bending over those who could not stand. 

Unlike Benny Hinn or some of the other faith healers who employed exaggerated methods or gestures such as coat-throwing or striking the faithful, Jack's method was soft, understated and subtle. As he approached each person, he motioned to an usher to stand behind them. With his left hand he raised his large pectoral cross for them to see. _In the name of **JEESUS**_ , he whispered. With his right hand raised in supplication to the heavens, he dropped the cross and slipped the left hand behind their heads, supporting them for brief time. Trusting, they leaned their heads back into his hand. _**A-MAN,**_ he whispered to each one, after which he gently tapped their foreheads with his right hand. They relaxed back into the arms of the ushers, who supported them or gently lowered them to the floor. When they were able, they were helped to rise and gently escorted back to their seats.

When the final person had been so treated, there were a few minutes of silence. _John of God_ called for a hymn, prayed for his flock, and ended the service. The congregation was dismissed for the night, all in the name of God.

While the sound and video crew shut down for the night and the custodians made ready to clean the auditorium, the ushers brought the offering plates to the office safe. 

Jack thanked them, deposited the funds in the large safe and spun the dial. No sense counting it now. Other funds were due in shortly.


	3. Marc

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Marcus Reynard, relaxing at home after a long day of budget meetings and project schedule preparations, glanced down at his phone for the third time in twenty minutes. The screen verified what he suspected. He was reluctant to just power the phone down; someone more important might call - so he ignored it as he had done the previous two times. _Henry, always Henry. Nag, nag, nag_. Never Dad. His father seldom called; he always just sicc’d Henry on him. Just as Marc was mulling hitting the _off_ switch anyway, a text came through. Good thing he left the phone on - this was Someone More Important:

_Leaving now - off to another adventure in the Land of Oz! Prayyy for meee! **8D**_

Marc grinned and shook his head. Swiftly, he tapped it out an answer:

_LOL! Feel ya, hon. **:|** Hurry home soon. _

_Now_ he could turn off the phone. _Screw you, Henry._

Marc went into the kitchen to make dinner, enough for himself and his special guy, whom he knew would be ready for a good meal when he got home. Marc whistled a tune as he set out ingredients for a quiche Lorraine. Even now, several years after he had sawed through the chains of fanatical religious bondage, it felt good to be free on a Wednesday night, _every_ Wednesday night in fact; every Sunday too, in his own home, doing his own thing and being loved by, and loving, his guy. If anything could claim itself as a true miracle in his life, that was it.

Marc, a 32-year-old electrical engineer with a promising future, had been born into wealth and privilege but had lost his mother just at the age he needed her most. Indoctrinated into his father’s church early, he had been raised to believe and trust in his father’s work … until puberty hit. From that point on, chaos reigned.

At fifteen, tall and handsome, he seemed to attract girls like flypaper but even before then, he realized that all he wanted from girls was out of their proximity. His male classmates didn’t seem to want to hang around him much, either. He was a fish out of water, a pariah, unable to fit in anywhere.

His widowed father didn’t seem sympathetic to what he was going through. Jack demanded good grades and insisted on regular church attendance; aside from that he seemed content to let the help raise his son, as long as he was an asset and a credit to his father. If he happened to stray from the straight and narrow, there was hell to pay.

For Marc, the grades were easy but the constant church attendance ate away time for extracurricular activities like ball games and other athletics, activities where perhaps he could make friends. Marc was growing into an increasingly frustrated teenager, unable to find answers in his father’s sermons or even in the Bible. He loathed the healing sessions he was forced to attend; not only that, the older he got, the more he viewed them with suspicion. His logical, mathematical mind found itself at odds with fanatical spiritualism and what he came to view as nothing more than mass hysteria.

Marc channeled his energies, concentrated on his studies and graduated from high school with honors. The very next year he entered college which opened up a whole new world. Although the main focus was on an engineering degree, college afforded him the opportunity to discover where he himself fit into the scheme of things. Marc flourished in college; he made friends; began to attend special lectures and seminars and talked with many different people. All of these things supported the conclusion that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him at all.

He was merely gay.

His relationship with his father continued to deteriorate. Only occasionally would he attend his father’s church, which by now featured a healing session not just Wednesday nights, but at every single service. He sat in the back as a casual observer, not taking part in what he came to believe was a complete farce. It was evident that his father was taking advantage of these people. They couldn't help being desperate, but his father was selling them his own special brand of snake oil. He hadn’t seen one instantaneous, undeniable, miraculous cure. Not one. It was so obvious to him. Why couldn't _they_ see it?

Once he obtained his degree and secured a job with an engineering firm, Marc moved to his own place, which he shared with the one person who had shown him unconditional love. On his own path at last, life was good for Marc; moving steadily forward. 

Marc's relationship with his father, however, remained cautiously civil. He knew what his father thought of him, voiced or not. He maintained a distance between them, only occasionally attending a church service, not for spiritual guidance or to please the old man, but to try to determine just how his father was able to persuade so many people of his healing power. Jack hadn't been born of a virgin; he was nothing special; just a good salesman! Marc saw Jack as less of a parent these days and more of a false prophet; nothing more than a con artist.

More than once he thought of going to the authorities with his suspicions, but his own experiences with them had shaken his resolve. It wasn't worth the intimidation or the harassment, and he didn't have the evidence he knew they would need to prove anything.

Then one day, he ran into an old friend from college ...


	4. Confrontation; Hope of Salvation

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Marc Reynard checked his watch. His stomach was growling; he’d been waiting for two hours now; the quiche had been cooling on the counter all that time. _Wonder what’s keeping him? He isn’t usually this late._ Marc stopped pacing for a minute and slapped his own forehead. _Stupid, if you turned your phone on you might find out what’s going on. Maybe he took the old lady out to dinner afterward, or something..._

But there were no texts or calls. Shrugging, Marc picked up a knife and cut a bite-size wedge of quiche out of the pan. He popped it in his mouth. _Yum! Wherever the hell you are, Honey, you’re missing a real treat...!_

The phone signaled an incoming call.

_Finally!_

Marc picked up the phone without looking at it.

‘Henry told me he called you, Marc, several times. I expected to hear from you by now.’

_Oh, fuck._ ‘Hello, Dad. Well, y’know, I didn’t want to interrupt the service.’

‘You didn’t want to attend it, either, did you? I haven’t seen you in church in at least-’

‘The job’s been keeping me pretty busy, Dad. We’re contracted for that big shopping center going in.’

‘Last month it was some other job. There are plenty of engineers in my congregation who make time for their church.’

‘ _Your_ church, Dad.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Look, Dad, I can’t talk right now, I’m expecting a call from-’

‘Are you still living with that degenerate?’

Marc closed his eyes and pulled in a long, deep breath. The old bastard could never just call and say hello, how are you. Always an argument. Always a tirade. Marc felt his blood pressure rising in his veins. His temple throbbed.

Jack repeated his question angrily. ‘Well, are you?!’

‘Yes, Dad, I am. Still living with the degenerate. You know why? Us degenerates gotta stick together, man. We’ve been together several years now, didja know that? We love each other very much. He’s my life and I’m his. In fact, we’re talking of getting married. No way will you ever understand or even try to understand.’

‘Married?!? To a _man?!?_ ’ You’re right, I _don’t_ understand! You’re a grown man on your own now - and that’s as it should be. Fine. I’ve seen you grow up, struggling with your sinful urges these many years. I know you’ve tried to fight the good fight and I tried to help by binding Satan’s power over you - but you persist in living with that degenerate and now you’re talking about marriage?!?’

Marc’s blood began to boil. ‘Let’s put that another way, Dad. You persist in calling yourself a faith healer. Yet you couldn’t even cure my mother!!’

‘That… that was the Lord’s will. There _are_ some things I can’t do.’

‘Like accepting me for who I am. What if that was the Lord's will, huh?? And what in hell have I done that’s so evil?? I’ve made good. Good job, a decent life and faithful to the man I love. Not enough, huh? You hate my guts, don’t you, Dad? You raised me to be a Christian and oh, my God, I’m gay. I’m honest about it. I’m out; to you, probably even to most of your congregation. Doesn’t go with what you preach to people, does it?’

‘No one can be gay and Christian at the same time.’

‘No? My Christianity was good enough for you until I hit puberty and figured out who I was. Now I’m not good enough for it, is that it? Or are you just afraid I’ll reflect poorly on you?’

‘You’re courting Satan! You’re actually inviting him into your life! Son, listen to me. I have the answer. There’s a doctor in Seattle. Just a three-hour drive. He’s doing wonderful things with conversion therapy-’

Marc laughed out loud. ‘Do you seriously think I’m going to subject myself to _that?!_ ’

‘I want you to drive up there next week and talk to him, and I want that degenerate out of your house.’

Despite his rising anger, Marc found himself grinning at his father’s audacity. ‘Nope, sorry, no can do, Dad.’

‘There will be consequences if you don’t. I’ll alter my will.’

‘Fine. Go ahead. Alter away. I don’t need your damned money. _You fucking hypocrite!_ You think you’re so high and mighty! _Me_ courting Satan? I don’t think so. You know what, Dad? If I were you, I’d take a good, long look in your goddamn mirror!’

Marc didn’t wait for a reply. Quivering with pent-up anger, he hurled the cell phone across the room where it shattered against the ceramic tile floor. 

Grabbing his keys and wallet, he slapped a sticky note on the door and slammed it behind him.

Marc drove with the top down; he needed air; he needed a beer; hell, two, maybe even three. His favorite bar was just up the street. That was another thing Dear Old Dad had always nagged him about; the evils of drink. How in hell could that old man make himself out to be such a saint? Anyway, it felt damned good to finally throw it in the old man’s face about his mother. Faith healer, indeed!

Marc swung the car into the parking lot and went inside. He’d been coming to this bar since college. _Crossed Swords_ catered to the largely gay neighborhood. It had an old English pub feel, with dark heavy furniture, colorful mosaic windows and knight’s armor on the walls. The drinks were served in tankards.

Marc sat at the bar. The first beer lowered his blood pressure; halfway through the second he felt quite mellow. He heard someone call his name and turned to see an old college acquaintance. Marc motioned him over.

‘Well, I’ll be damned. Oren Metz! Haven’t seen you in- how long’s it been, anyway?’

Oren grinned. ‘Last time I remember seeing you I was tutoring you in integral calculus. You were on the verge of flunking, remember?’

‘Yeah, that damn course was kicking my ass,’ Marc admitted. ‘How’ve you been? What are you doing now?’

‘You first.’

‘Well, your help paid off, buddy. Got my degree. I’m an electrical engineer with ECAM Ltd. It’s all good. Thinking about getting married. You?’

‘Well... kind of a convoluted tale to tell, but in a nutshell, I’m with _Metz & Downey Hybrid Jet Engines_.’

‘No _shit_? Man, that’s a big operation!’

‘Yeah, it’s been great, after a rocky start. Five or so years ago some asshole scientist with a buttload of money stole my engine designs and passed ‘em off as his own. I was set adrift. Damn near lost the whole thing.’

‘Damn! So who was the asshole scientist? What happened?’

‘Guy by the name of James Kanack. He’s in a mental hospital; been there for years. Not sure if he’ll ever get out.’

‘I think I heard about him. Pretty powerful guy. You must have had some lawyer!’

‘No…’ Oren laughed. ‘No, not a lawyer. There’s not a lawyer alive who could have fixed this for me.’

‘Maybe I better not ask,’ Marc chuckled. 'But… then, again… ’

‘What?’

Marc shook his head. ‘Oren, I gotta talk to _somebody ._ Got a minute?’

‘Staff meeting in twelve hours Dude; need my beauty sleep.’

‘I promise I won’t take long - give you the condensedversion. Can we sit over there?’ Marc indicated a quiet corner booth. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘Beer, but this is it for me; no more.’

‘All right. Just listen to this and tell me if you think I’m crazy, ok?’

Marc briefly laid it out: his suspicions about his father, his church and his healing practices.

‘He’s a healer like I’m an astronaut, Oren. He does this thing on the stage and I watch those people; everybody else is swayin’ and prayin’ but I watch them; they come out of that building almost like zombies, man. Must not be much healing going on because they’re up there, month after month. They just keep coming back. Not only that, but the old man is really raking it in. I mean, more than you would think even a mega-church could do.’

'How do you know that? Have you seen his books?'

'No, but have you seen that place? And he's got a hanger full of planes, a garage full of cars, two yachts... '

‘What do you think is going on?’

Marc shook his head. ‘I dunno. _I dunno._ Something's just... _off_. I have no proof of anything.’

Oren nodded. ‘Proof is good to have, like I did, but sometimes proof can be _obtained_. And you’re in luck, because the guy who helped me is back in town; he’s been gone who-knows-where all this time, but I saw him the other day. I don’t know if he’s still in business but lemme tell ya, he’s the guy you need.’

‘Can you talk to him for me?’

‘If I can find him, I’ll talk to him. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to him. I gotta get going. Hey - great to see you, Marc.’

‘Same here, Oren. All my hopes.’

‘That’s as good as a prayer, isn't it?’


	5. The Last Service

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

A white-suited usher helped Edith Mallory down the aisle of the church toward the chancel to join the group waiting onstage. Edith’s son Kamron had tried to dissuade her one last time before she left her seat, but she was adamant. She was steadfast in her belief, so much so that in recent months she had abandoned her doctors and placed all her faith in _John of God_. Her son, however, privately scorned the concept. She had begged him to accompany her tonight, to see for himself that miracles were possible. He had very reluctantly agreed. 

The usher handed her up the last step just as _John of God_ gestured in her direction. She walked the short distance to the center of the chancel and took her place with those awaiting their healing.

 _John of God_ stepped forward grandly to meet Edith, his white suit blazing in the overhead stage lights. His gray-flecked brown hair was perfectly styled; the diamond tie clip caught a piece of light and sparkled. Edith squinted in the glare of the lights and took the extended hand whose manicured fingers were adorned with diamond rings. The reflected lights off the rings dotted her pale face like stars.

‘My sister,’ he crooned softly, intimately, ‘your burdens seem very heavy today. Yet you make this great effort to come to the Lord today, to lay them down and at last, be healed.’

‘Yes, John,’ Edith whispered.

‘ _Praise the Lord!_ We’ve been together in Christ, working toward complete recovery for a while now, haven’t we, Sister Edith?’

‘Yes, John.’

‘And you _will_ recover, Sister Edith. Now, _right now is the time_ , in the name of God the Father Almighty, receive our Lord Jesus Christ; _A-MA-A-AN!_ ’

Edith listened to the congregation enthusiastically shouting words of praise behind her. She closed her eyes and smiled, firm in the belief that she would be transformed in an instant, well again after years of poor health. While it was true that her cancer-like symptoms had not worsened in past weeks, neither had they abated - yet each time she received grace from _John of God_ , she felt better. She was only 65, weary of being sick, wanting just a few more years of activity, more time with her only son. _John of God_ would complete the cure tonight. She knew it. She was certain of it.

 _John of God_ nodded to the usher to stand behind Edith. He clasped his large pectoral cross with his left hand. Then he extended that hand and slipped it behind Edith’s neck as if to support her head. The outstretched fingers of his right hand rose in appeal to an unseen power. He closed his eyes as if in prayer. His stance was impressive; one knee slightly bent, leaning forward, his right hand descending to tap the woman’s forehead. With thunderous voice, he proclaimed: 'In the Name of _Je-e-e-sus_ , I command your body at last, to be _free_ of _disease_ ! _Ya-YAH!!_ '

He released his hold. Edith wavered on her feet for a moment before her head fell back. The usher deftly caught her limp body. As he had with the others, he gently lowered her to the carpet. Edith lay still. So still in fact, that after the initial intake of breaths - soft exclamations of _Hallelujah!_ and _Praise Jesus! -_ and the passing of several minutes as the others on stage returned to their seats, the congregation grew increasingly silent. Edith lay motionless.

One voice rang out in the silence. _'MOM!!'_

The congregation again broke out again in soft whispers. Exclamations of concern could be heard throughout the enormous building.

Kamron, Edith’s son, was on his feet in an instant and running toward the chancel when an usher stopped him, speaking softly but refusing to allow him to pass. Kam became frantic and tried to push past him. Another usher stepped up to help. The young man’s struggles with the two white-clad ushers temporarily distracted the congregation from the chancel where, bathed in harsh stage lights, chaos of a different type reigned.

Two more ushers had knelt beside Edith; one had vainly attempted to detect a pulse in her neck and was beginning CPR while the other dialed the 911 emergency number. _John of God_ had remained standing. Brow furrowed, he had silenced his microphone and could be seen talking to the ushers. He watched the two men working feverishly over the supine woman. The stage lights were killed; only the house lights remained. 

Presently, emergency medical technicians arrived with a hospital gurney. Kamron, still restrained by the ushers, watched helplessly as his mother was placed on the gurney and covered with a sheet. An oxygen mask was placed over her face. The young man shoved the ushers back and hurried to his mother’s side. He held her hand as the EMTs escorted the gurney from the sanctuary.

John of God admonished his congregation to remain calm; to stay seated. They obeyed.

Outside, the ambulance was waiting; its lights a blinding mixture of colors. The EMTs loaded Edith into the vehicle; her son was allowed to ride with the driver. The sound of the siren faded into the distance. 

Inside the sanctuary, _John of God_ approached the podium and turned his microphone back on. 

‘Brothers and Sisters!’ he intoned. He was gratified to see the congregation’s whispers quieting; they settled down to listen to him. ‘Be ye not afraid. Healings take all forms. Sister Edith has been healed in her mind and in her soul. We, as mortals, have frail bodies that sometimes need to be given time to catch up. She’s been taken to the hospital just as a precaution. Fear _not_ ,’ he stretched his hand out to the audience for emphasis. ‘For I am _with you!_ Let us offer up a prayer for Sister Edith's recovery and continue with our service. _Amen! Praise the Lord!!'_

The audience responded; relief evident in a multitude of voices that rose in song. They could not know that the ambulance had delivered Sister Edith to the hospital. 

Dead on arrival.


	6. Take a Leap of Faith

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Kamron Mallory collapsed onto an iron bench that stood outside the Providence Milwaukie Hospital Emergency Room. His shoulders shook with his sobbing. Several people walked by with only a passing glance at a young man obviously in great pain, but apparently too intent on their own problems to consider anyone else’s.

With one exception - a young, mixed-race couple who slowly approached the bench on which he sat.

‘Um… Excuse me. Are you all right?’ a deep voice asked gently.

The young man looked up. Distrust immediately clouded a face streaked with tears.

‘It’s ok,’ the young blonde reassured him. ‘If you need help...’

He waved them away. ‘I don’t need any help. It’s my mother. No one can help. I don’t think even a lawyer could help, if that’s what you are. Just leave me alone.’

‘Aw, no, man!’ the tall, dark-complected man chuckled. ‘We ain’t lawyers.’

‘Actually… we pick up where the law leaves off,’ said the petite blonde, matter-of-factly.

The tall man bugged his eyes at the petite blonde, giving her a gentle shove with his elbow, after which she hissed to him, ‘Well, that’s what Nate always used to say!’

‘But you’re not Nate! Well, you’re Nate in a way, but you’re not Nate!’

‘Stop it! You’re confusing me!’

Kamron, listening to them bicker in whispers, shook his head adamantly. ‘No. _NO!_ ,’ he repeated. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in _anything_ , legal or not. Please, just... let me alone. My mother just died. All she did was go to church. The preacher touched her...’ He broke into fresh sobs. ‘ _And now she's dead!_ ’

The young couple exchanged a glance. The little blonde considered a moment, and tried a different approach. She sat down beside him. ‘Please, just come and talk to us,’ she said, quietly and calmly. ‘We understand your caution. We know how much pain you're in. Tell you what. We’ll treat you to a free meal at the Bridgeport Brewpub. Meet us there in an hour. It’s a nice place, a public place, no hassle. No risk at all to you. Just good food.’

‘And no obligation,’ the tall man added. ‘Come on, man. You look ready to collapse. Must have been an awfully bad day for you. Will you meet us there?’

Kamron gazed up at the tall man for a long time, seeming to take his measure. He switched his gaze to the slender blonde sitting beside him. Something behind those inscrutable, blue eyes seemed to tug at Kamron, beckoning, inviting trust. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

‘All right. I’ll listen to what you have to say,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see how you can help. I mean, who are you, anyway?’

‘We’ll tell you. Take a leap of faith. Just trust us,’ said the little blonde. ‘Please.’

Kamron nodded. ‘All right. I’ll be there. Where is it again?’

The tall man flicked a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Kameron. _**Leverage, International**_ it read, along with an address and phone number.

Kamron accepted the card and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He took a deep breath, glanced one last time at the couple, as if he wasn’t sure the conversation that just took place had really taken place, got up and slowly walked on down the street. The couple watched him go.

Alec Hardison looked down at Parker still seated on the bench. ‘I hope he’ll come,’ he said.

Parker looked up at him. ‘He will. Look at him. He's in a lot of pain. He wants to believe we can help him. We've got to at least try.’

‘Telling him to take a leap of faith like you did… that a new thing? That didn’t sound like the Parker I know.’

‘What did you mean when you said I was Nate in a way but that I wasn’t Nate?’

 _‘That_ sounds like the Parker I know.’


	7. England vs Ireland

  


**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_**A FEW DAYS EARLIER...** _

Inside the car rental kiosk of the Portland International Airport, Nathan Ford signed the credit card receipt and handed it to the clerk.

‘Your Lincoln Town Car is ready for you, Mr. Ford. Here’s your copy - and the keys. Our service man will go over its operations with you, if you like.’

Nate shook his head. ‘No thanks - I'm familiar with the model.' With a self-confident air, he looked up at the clerk. ' _Several_ models, in fact. We just want to be on our way.’

‘That's fine, sir. Touring the area?’ the young man asked politely. He started to reach for some brochures to hand to his customer.

Nate shook his head. ‘No, we won't need those, thank you - we're just here for a brief visit; haven’t been here in a while. We have friends here.’

‘Enjoy your visit, then, sir.’

Nate extended the handles of the two large, wheeled bags, cueing Sophie - who was waiting impatiently in a chair - with a nod of his head. She followed, carrying only her purse. They exited the double doors; Nate struggling with the two unwieldy bags as Sophie glided past him. Their car awaited them at the curb. She silently opened the car door and slid into the front seat. Nate, long-suffering, managed to get the bags in the trunk and slam the lid. He got in the driver’s seat and inserted the key. Before he started the engine, he stole at glance at his wife of five years; his partner of ten. She hadn't uttered a word since deplaning. 

‘Is this going to be a thing the whole time we’re here?’

‘Is _what_ going to be a thing? I’ve not said _one word_.’

‘That’s your way of creating a thing.’

‘I haven’t the _faintest_ idea what you’re blathering about,’ Sophie rejoined impatiently in her cultured, English accent.

‘Look, we're not going to be here long. I just wanna see 'em again. This jaunting around the world with you from pillar to post and back to pillar for years now, has been fine, but it’s getting old. It’s my turn.’

Sophie’s entire attention seemed to be fixated on the flashing rental car sign in the parking lot. She said nothing.

‘I miss 'em, Sophie. I imagine they thought they'd never see us again. And, well,’ he sighed, ‘truth be known, I thought maybe getting back to basics would help us make some sense of our relationship.’ He was tempted to mutter _I hesitate to call it a marriage_ under his breath, but thought better of it.

‘I said _all right,_ didn’t I? I’d like to see them again; I told you that.' Her voice grew wistful. 'Baby Bird’s holding the reins; Hardison's probably learned to hit and Eliot knows what a thumb drive is by now. I want to see how much they've all grown, especially Parker.’

‘Nice. Has the Sophie I once knew returned?’

‘Honestly, Nate. Just drive, will you?’

Nate’s face settled into grim lines as he proceeded down the street. He turned onto the freeway in the direction of their hotel.

'As long as we're visiting,' Sophie ventured, 'I'd like to drop in and see Zachary, too - I've kept in touch with him all these years, you know. He teaches drama now at Portland Community College.'

'Oh? Maybe you should take a class or two while we're here.'

Sophie turned in her seat to face him. 'I seem to recall a plethora of _stellar_ performances with a _myriad_ of accents that I pulled off in the five years we worked together,' she spat at him.

'I meant for the _stage_. Let's face it, Soph' - granted, the entire _world_ was your stage, but somehow it didn't translate when you trod the boards,' he laughed. 

She sat back in her seat. 'I compensated for that. I made up for it with my-'

'Crazy acting classes?'

'How could you _possibly know_ what I was doing, as drunk as you were most of the time?? _And still are?!'_

Nate drove on in silence after that. Sophie gazed out the window again, fuming. The sound of the engine and the air conditioner masked the silence in the car but did nothing for the strained atmosphere. Nate exited the freeway. Several four- and five-star hotels lined the streets off the feeder; theirs was further downtown. They had booked a fine suite for the week with all the amenities... but at the moment, Nate wasn't sure if he shouldn't get a separate room upon arrival... or a separate hotel altogether.

**~~~~~**

_They hadn’t been getting along lately; for the past eighteen months the occasional tart remark had progressed to outright sniping. The journey they had begun together after they left Portland had reached an impasse. It had taken them five years to build their relationship; another five years on top of that had all but torn it down._

_Nate had grown older and the relaxed home life that he now preferred bored the younger Sophie. Nate was content to retire and enjoy the spoils; Sophie wasn’t quite done collecting them. Her life had centered around grifting; twisting people around her little finger for too long, to lay it all aside for the rest of her life. Nate had reluctantly taken up the fun and confidence games from a need for revenge; later, for the satisfaction it gave him in the wake of Sam’s death. It got tiresome after a while; he wanted to move on. With Sophie._

_Now he and Sophie were at odds._

_‘Even when I went straight,’ she said to him one day when they were discussing it, ‘under your expert direction, of course, the jobs were exciting; kept me on my toes. Theater was a pleasant distraction... but now... what is there except telling the maid what to do? I'm just...bored, Nate.’_

_And he had replied, ‘I know. We used every con in the book and even invented a few to help all those people. It was good, and we had a good run. But I’m tired of cons, Sophie. It’s all so fake. I want what's genuine now. You know what I want; we’ve talked about it often enough... I'd like us to be a family,’ he said softly as he moved to kiss her, ‘a complete family... before it’s too late.’_

_He was never quite sure why she had backed away from his caress. ‘It’s_ already _too late!’ she had said, irritably, a_ _nd the discussion had ended. Nate eventually found renewed solace in the one friend that had never let him down: a filled shot glass. Throwing his hard-won sobriety out the window, he had resumed drinking - which only added fuel to Sophie's fire. Locked in a stalemate, they had shelved discussions of any depth and lived on the surface, like oil on water. Staring into his regular Irish whiskey, brooding, Nate saw the culmination of his dreams slowly dissipating. In what he thought was a flash of inspiration, he had suggested a trip back to Portland. Maybe, somehow, they could recapture what they had lost..._

**~~~~~**

It had been so quiet that when Sophie spoke it startled him. ‘Pull in there, Nate. Stop the car.'

He looked at her quizzically. ‘Our reservations are at the Hilton Portland downtown, not here.’

‘I… I know… I’m going to stay here for a few days,’ Sophie said, pointing at the elegant hotel at the end of the block that towered in splendor above them. 

Nate’s face closed down as he complied with her request. He pulled under the porte cochere and killed the engine, staring straight ahead. As a uniformed porter wheeled out a brass cart, Nate obligingly popped the trunk.

Sophie turned in her seat to face him. ‘I’ll call you in a few days, Nate. I need to think. Please believe me when I say I _would_ like to see Parker and the boys.’ She seemed to hesitate. ‘I just…’ Sophie left the thought hanging. 

'Be sure he takes your bag and not mine,' Nate said, sarcastically.

Sophie, exasperated, closed the car door. 

Nate drove the car forward a few feet and parked. Glancing around, he pulled a full flask from his coat pocket and took a good, long, swig. He put the car in gear.

‘ _Good._ Now I can enjoy myself. You wanna go see ‘em? Flag down a cab,’ Nate mumbled under his breath as he screeched out of the driveway.


	8. Sentimental Journey

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Nate, not exactly enjoying himself, spent a day or two at the Hilton Portland, brooding alone in his room or brooding alone in the bar downstairs; the latter more than the former. Here, in the town which had served as his base of operations for several jobs during that last year - until the _Black Book_ could be obtained - the voices of his old team echoed in his thoughts. Whenever Sophie had the audacity to elbow her way onto the spectral stage of his mind for her share of the attention, Nate proceeded to show her to the door. 

_Sophie: Drunk again? *_ Out, Sophie.* _  
_ _Eliot: You're getting worse._ _  
_ _Hardison: This - this is messing you up, man._ _  
_ _Parker: We can't keep watching you do this to yourself._ _  
_ _Nate: Is this my_ intervention! _? Are my bags packed and in the car,  
_ _ready to take me to rehab!?_  
 _Sophie: You don't need rehab, Nate. *Out, Sophie!*  
_ _Eliot: You need revenge._

It was revenge, back then. This was now. He'd _had_ revenge, wonderful, sweet, beautiful, delicious revenge... for his son. So what, exactly, _other than a blissful marriage_ , he chuckled to himself, did he need _now_? What was he lacking? He'd felt a strong urge to have a family - probably those aging hormones panicking, if testosterone did that. But, well, maybe Sophie was right about that; maybe they _were_ getting a little too long in the tooth to even consider it. Maybe retirement was getting to him. Maybe it was age. Here he was, pushing sixty years old. Yep, maybe Sophie was right. But, hell, his old man was still wheeling and dealing up until the moment he... up until the moment he died. 

Could it be that he never should have left Portland at all? Never should have left the team? Was that a bad call? Could it be that he'd been chasing unattainable dreams all this time? He and Sophie had planned a great retirement but it wasn't working out. Thinking back, he remembered her saying she was just getting to like Portland as they were walking out the door. Should they have stayed? 

Sitting in his hotel room, Nate had to admit to himself that he didn’t know. He didn't know what he needed. Second-guessing his decisions was something he'd rarely done before. Why was he doing it now?

He wanted to talk it over with Sophie. He felt lost; adrift without her. Sure, they'd been fighting tooth and nail for months now, but they were still bound together with some unseen, unbreakable cord. This quiet hotel room, luxurious though it was, felt like an empty gourd with him as the pebble rolling around in it. Sophie had said she would call, but she hadn't. Fear. That was another emotion he was feeling, fear; and he didn't like it. What if this wasn't just a vacation from each other; a space to breathe; a time to think? What if she stayed gone?

Maybe he should be the one to call. Take her to a fancy dinner and talk it over. She always seemed to divine his thoughts; surely she'd know he didn't want it this way. A memory stirred. _Maybe he better take her to a burger joint where the glasses were paper_ , he thought to himself ruefully. He rubbed the scar where a crystal goblet had damn near fractured his cheekbone during a fight at a fancy dinner some months back...

She had said she'd call him and Sophie always followed through. Why hadn't she? Maybe he should let it sit a while. Maybe he should swing by the Brewpub. Nah... not in this frame of mind. Still, he badly needed a distraction. He stared at his reflection in the dresser mirror and ran his hands through his hair, releasing the waves. When had he gotten so gray?

He sat on the couch, powered up the TV and ran the channels. All crap. He tossed the remote down, gazing forlornly out the window. What could he do, alone in Portland? Go see a movie? A museum? Take a drive and have some dinner? That sounded feasible, he'd been mostly drinking his meals. He could use a steak. But first, a nice, long drive.

Nate got dressed, grabbed his keys and left the room.

**~~~~~**

The rental’s sunroof opened at his touch. With only slightly overcast skies, cool, crisp air swirled into the interior of the car, ruffling his unruly hair. It had an energizing effect on him. He drove easily, taking the 26 to the 205 to the 84 and back around Portland; circling, circling, not thinking, just driving for hours in silence; with not even the radio on. It was relaxing. On the third pass he recognized a familiar area and exited the freeway.

Cruising once well-known streets, the occasional landmark came into view. Old memories came flooding back... this job... that job... jobs done with his team. Some they screwed up, some went swimmingly, but they were all good. Lives put right. Justice achieved; fairness restored. Win-win situations. The best years of his life; a legacy to take pride in, just not advertised, for the methods were mostly downright illegal. What did it matter, the end justified the means in his book. 

There to the left; the museum with the ridiculously placed, full-sized 747 still on its roof. Some miles and twists and turns later, he passed Portland Memorial Coliseum where Eliot had once built quite a fan base as hockey star Jacques LaBert. _Jack the Bear!_ _Jack the Bear!!_ Hockey, baseball, whatever gave that boy the opportunity to hit something without killing anyone, he was game. 

Nate found himself grinning. With his spirits lifting a little, hunger asserted itself. He drove on, looking for a good steakhouse; his stomach growled. If memory served, there was a good one about a block from where the old Kanack Hybrid Engine offices once operated. He looked for the sign. _Must’ve passed it_ , he thought. _No – there it was, under a different name_.

**_Metz & Downey_ **

**_Hybrid Jet Engines_ **

_Nice logo,_ he thought. His old client had apparently done pretty well for himself _._ Nate grinned wider as he parked in the steakhouse garage, remembering Oren Metz, who turned down a million-dollar check, preferring instead to have his reputation restored. He had to admit to himself; he owed that one to Sophie. She had _listened_ to their client. She bested him in that arena. _Well, hell, she’d been grifting long enough; after all. By comparison, I’m_ still _new to the game_.

The aroma of the steakhouse beckoned. Nate entered the establishment and was soon seated in a quiet corner, as requested. After a couple of drinks and a plate of delicious hor d'oeuvres, Nate was finishing his medium-rare Filet Mignon when a small group of businessmen entered. They were seated not far from his table. Glancing at them, he did a double-take. He had been thinking of Oren Metz; now he was looking right at him.

Nate nodded in recognition. Thus encouraged, Oren excused himself from the small group and came over to Nate’s table. 

Nate glanced up at the smiling, bespectacled face. Oren had filled out a little over the years; he looked every bit the prosperous professional in charge of a billion-dollar industry. _Look at what we did, Sophie. We did good. We did damned good. This kid is thriving._

‘Mr. Ford,’ said Oren, ‘Nice of you to remember me. I heard you left Portland.’

Oren extended his hand and Nate shook it, briefly. ‘Yes, yes I did. Just visiting. Not staying long.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Care to join us for drinks?’ Oren motioned to his table.

Nate glanced at the three young professionals at the table who seemed to be deep in discussion and shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no. Looks like a business meeting to me.’

‘Maybe another time, then. Is Miss Sophie with you? How's Friday at the Bridgeport Brewpub where we first met?’

‘Yes... yes, Miss Sophie is in town. We’ll see… not _entirely_ sure what our plans are. Oh, and uh, Oren? If any of your co-workers ask about me, remember, you signed a non-disclosure agreement when we concluded our business.'

‘Of course, Mr. Ford, no problem. It was really great seeing you.’ Oren returned to his table.

Nate finished his drink and paid the check. Nice to meet a satisfied customer. He checked his watch. The night was still young; he had more memories to revisit. It would have been nice to have Sophie along.


	9. Kamron

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_'I hope he’ll come,’ said Hardison._

_Parker looked up at him. ‘He will. Look at him. He's in a lot of pain. He wants to believe we can help him. We've got to at least try.’_

Hardison leaned around the corner of the bar and called to Parker who was helping the staff in the kitchen. 'I don't think he's coming, Babe,' he said. 

She knew who he meant. She and Hardison had been waiting over an hour, taking turns along with Amy, their best waitress, in watching for him but there was as yet no sign of their prospective client. 

'He _will_ ,' she insisted with childlike simplicity. 

Hardison returned to the office. Some minutes later, Amy knocked on the office door. 'That guy you told me to watch for just came in.'

'OK, put ‘im in the corner booth. Whatever he wants, you make sure he gets it. Oh, and Amy? No check.’

Amy looked at her boss questioningly. 'No check? No charge? At all?’

Hardison quickly manufactured a story. _‘I lost a bet,’_ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘And listen, if he tries to get up and leave, _stall_. I'll be right there. I really need to talk to him.’

Amy nodded. She seated the man in the quiet corner booth as requested. ‘Welcome to the Bridgeport Brewpub. What can I get you?’

‘Just water - for now. Ice water, with lemon, please.’

Amy placed the menu on the table and returned presently. ‘Here you are, sir. Also, I'm to tell you that anything you order _is on the house._ Absolutely anything you want,’ she added.

‘I dunno – I’m not really that hungry. In fact, I - I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Sorry, I think I’ll just –‘ The young man made to get up.

‘Wait! Please.’ Amy put a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Please don’t go. I’d like to suggest… why don’t you try what we call a Chicken Parmesan Taster? I mean, I hate to brag, but it’s so popular we can barely keep the ingredients stocked. It’s our own recipe. Won’t you just try it? Please?’ She turned the full battery of her charm on him. He looked so worn, beaten, hopeless.

The man sighed. ‘Oh, all right. I guess I could eat a little something.’

‘Great. It’ll be right out.’

Amy returned to the bar just as Hardison emerged from the office. He waited until the man finished the small dish before he ventured to join him, sliding into the opposite seat.

‘Hey, man. Glad you came by. Did you like the Chicken Parm Taster?’

‘Yes, in fact, if it’s okay, I’d like another helping.’

‘Hungrier than you thought, huh?’ said Hardison with a smile. He signaled Amy to bring an order.

‘Guess so. You, uh, you're the one I met earlier, at the hospital, right?’

‘Yep. Name’s Alec Whitmore. You met my wife, Lucy, too.’

‘Is she here?’

‘She’ll be here soon.’

‘I'm Kamron Mallory - I go by Kam. Look, I don't - I don’t know what you think you can do here. My mother… well…’ he shrugged and shakily reached for his water glass. It seemed to Hardison that he didn’t know exactly where to begin or what to say. He was obviously angry, deeply upset and agitated. 

‘Let’s start off with what you told us. Your mother passed away tonight.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hey, I'm sorry, man. Just tell me what happened. Was she sick or was it an accident?’

Kam closed his eyes as if to collect his thoughts. ‘It’s like this, Mr. Whitmore, my mother and I are - were - very close. I lived with her for a long time after college but I've been out on my own a while now - I have an apartment and a roommate she didn't know about. I always visited often, and she wanted me to go to church with her every Sunday, sometimes Wednesdays and every other day of the week, too, but I work, and I'm also studying for a master's in computer science. Can’t afford the time. So I went with her whenever I could,' he shrugged.

‘Nothin’ wrong with that. I did more or less the same thing with my Nan… uh, with my grandmother.’

‘Church? A regular church?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well - this isn't exactly what I'd call a church; the preacher’s a "faith-healer",’ Kam said, making quotes with his fingers.

‘Oh, I see. Your mother was sick.’

“Yeah, for some time now. She was taking chemo for cancer - or – well, not really, something _like_ cancer. Ever heard of _L.A.M._?’

Hardison shook his head.

‘It’s an abbreviation. Easier to say than the whole name,’ Kam added in a lame attempt at humor. ‘It’s _Lymphangioleiomyomatosis_. L.A.M., for short.’

‘Sounds bad.’

‘Well… it is... and it isn’t. It’s kind of rare, actually. What happens is, cells grow out of control in lungs, lymph nodes, kidneys, but really, really slowly. That’s what one of her doctors told me. Some doctors didn’t even call it cancer. They thought chemo would help, and it did for a while, until she stopped treatment the minute she found this faith healer. Funny thing is, she seemed to be improving after that, then she got worse, then improved, got worse, like a roller coaster. I don’t understand.’

'You're sure she stopped chemotherapy?'

'Yes. I made an appointment for her and she said she didn't go. Said she was never going again. Said it made her feel sick and this preacher was healing her.'

Kam finished his water.

'Want a refill, man? Or a coke, or a craft beer or something?'

'A coke would be great.'

Amy brought a full serving of Chicken Parm and shortly returned with an iced coke for both of them. Hardison waited while Kam hungrily ate half his dinner. 

‘Okay, so this evening, we went to the services,' Kam continued. 'Let me say this here and now, I don’t buy into that bullshit, Mr. Whitmore. I’ve listened to Mom’s doctors. I believe in science. I’m not religious.’

‘Then why go?’ asked Hardison. 

Hardison and Kam said the same thing simultaneously. ' _To please Mom.’_

'Yeah,' said Hardison.

‘This evening, Mom wasn’t feeling so well. She wanted to go to a healing service and she wanted me to go with her. I tried to talk her out of it up until they called her to the stage.’

_‘Stage?’_

‘You heard right. It’s a massive church, made over from a friggin’ basketball arena! This preacher who calls himself _John of God_ goes into his act. I _swear it’s an act_. He gets up there in a white tux with this big gold cross, like bling hanging around his neck, and he sermons up a storm. Then he leads a choir singing and praying and the audience sings and prays and then they put their money in the bowl. Then here comes the healing. Mom almost always goes up. There are several other people up there, too; some of 'em I call The Regulars. So this _John_ goes to each one and prays over 'em, grabs ‘em around the neck and zaps ‘em full of the Holy Spirit or whatever, and this usher is behind them to catch them if they fall back, and they usually do. After a minute or two they get up and go back to their seats, _Hallelujah_ , all cured. Well… Mom… she didn’t get up.’

Kam dissolved into tears. Hardison waited patiently until he could speak again. 

'They wouldn't let me go to her. I saw one guy doing CPR and they called 911. I went with her in the ambulance. They worked on her the whole time but the doctor took me aside and told me she had been dead the minute she hit the carpet. She was DOA.’

‘Damn, man. I’m sorry.’

‘What pisses me off is that all this time she’s been so steeped in this cult it’s like he’s Jim Jones standing by with a pitcher of Kool-Aid, and all he did was string her along, keeping her from medical intervention which might have prolonged her life!’

‘Do you have any other family? Anyone to help you now?’

Kam seemed to hesitate. ‘No other _blood_ relatives. Mom had me late – I guess that’s obvious; I’m 29; so no siblings. We lost Dad when I was in high school. That’s another thing. Dad left her pretty well off, Mr. Whitmore. Mom had money for medical insurance and everything. I guess after Dad died she was lonely and got more and more involved in church. She went to several before she switched to this one. I never was into it that much, myself. While I was home studying, she'd be at church at least three times a week, sometimes more. She'd found the perfect preacher, she said.'

'So your mother had an adequate income?'

‘Yeah, until she started going to this one particular church, everything was fine. I’m not one to pry, but I know she dropped her medical insurance and she’s been getting final notices right and left. I don't have to open the envelopes to know what they are.' Kam took a long drink from his coke. ‘I dunno, maybe I won't be liable for her debts after probate, but I still have a student loan and my own obligations. So, look, Mr. Whitmore, if you’re out to make a fast buck on this, I’m not your man. You say you want to help me, fine. But I can’t pay you a dime.’

‘That isn’t an issue,’ said Hardison. ‘We operate on an alternative revenue stream.’

‘Huh?’

‘We’re funded out of the corporate office.’ Hardison fielded any more such questions with his next comment. ‘OK, what I’m hearing, Kam, is that your mother was sick and this faith healer had her in his grip both emotionally and apparently, financially.’

‘Yes. But it’s more than that. That preacher physically did something to her. I know this. I can't prove it but I know it. I’ve been watching him. He uses the same technique on each person. He put his hands on her and the next thing I know she’s laid out on the floor!’

‘How long was she a member of this church?’

‘Let's see, she found him over a year after her diagnosis - so maybe six months.’

‘Are _you_ a member?’

Kam sighed. ‘Reluctantly.’

‘Why do you say that?’

'Mom insisted. I had to be a member of the other churches she attended, too. She thinks… she thought she could... _pray away the gay_ , you know what I mean? Mom and I were always close but this was the one thing we didn’t see eye to eye on.’ 

The young man warily looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes, expecting rejection and recrimination. He saw only in their dark depths understanding and acceptance.

Hardison smiled kindly at Kam, shook his head and chuckled a little. ‘I, uh, I don’t think that’ll work.’

Kam smiled. ‘It was never anything Mom would talk about with me. It was like the elephant in the room, you know? We loved each other; I did all I could for her yet her religion; her faith; call it what you will, wouldn’t allow her to accept me for the truth of what I was.’

‘ _Who_ you were,’ Hardison corrected him gently. ‘ _Who_.’

Kam gratefully nodded.

Just then Parker entered the dining room; Hardison motioned her over.

‘Kamron, my wife, Lucy. Lucy, this is Kamron,’ said Hardison. ‘Slide on in here, Babe. We’re gonna take his case.’


	10. Truces, Trysts and Reunions

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Nate Ford’s meanderings about the city in which he had once lived and worked ended, as if he was magnetized and drawn to it, at the Bridgeport Brewpub. He’d called ahead to make sure Parker, Eliot and Hardison were absent. He didn’t want to see familiar faces just yet. After five years, any restaurant’s turnover was usually a hundred percent, so he didn’t anticipate seeing anyone else who knew him. He wasn’t ready to see anybody yet; not without Sophie. So why was he drawn to the old place? Because it was good to be back. 

_Aw, man, the deals we cut here_ , he was thinking. _The plans we made… the clients we met… as well as the bug-outs and the clusterfucks..._ Damn, he couldn’t shake this living-in-the-past thing; it was becoming a habit. He couldn’t help it. The past was where he had been happy.

The guys had added considerable embellishments to the Brewpub. The whole place had been enlarged, allowing for more tables and booths, some changes in décor, all while still retaining the same warm, friendly ambiance. Heavenly aromas emanated from the back; somehow melding and complimenting each other; coffee, chili, salads, chicken and beef dishes, plus the notes of craft beers, all wafting through the air; taken in all, truly spelled success for the place over the last five years... and largely, he was willing to bet, due to Eliot Spencer’s spectacular pub menu.

Nate ordered a whiskey and stared out the window, thinking of nothing in particular; he felt comfortable; he felt at ease; he felt at home... until a familiar voice intruded on his thoughts.

‘Well, this is certainly a coincidence! Hello, Mr. Ford! I didn’t think you’d be here today!’

 _Oh, damn_. He’d forgotten about Oren Metz. It was all well and good to come back and reminisce, but having old clients bombard him at every turn was becoming annoying as hell.

‘Hello, Oren,' Nate said, evenly. 'Who’s your friend?’

Marc reached to shake hands with Nate. ‘I’m Marc Reynard, Mr. Ford. Nice to meet you. Oren was telling me about you.’ 

Nate sat back as far as the booth would allow and watched in amazement as the two men proceeded to take the other seat. 'Won't you sit down,' Nate said, deadpan. 'Marc, is it? So, what, exactly was Oren telling you about me?'

‘I told him what you did for me,’ Oren spoke enthusiastically on behalf of his friend. He threw up his hands in what Nate called the _I only_ gesture, as in _I only did this_ or _I only did that_ to help, I _swear_... sometimes it was _I just..._

‘I just gave him a recommendation - that's not a violation of the NDA, is it? He was anxious to meet with you, if you’re willing.’

‘I need help, Mr. Ford,’ Marc said, simply. 'Please. Oren thinks you're the only one who can help me.'

Nate looked from Marc to Oren. ‘Help with _what_ , exactly? Maybe I wasn't clear the other day, Oren, I left Portland because _I retired_.’

Marc and Oren exchanged glances. Nate had seen that look a thousand times. They weren't going to take no for an answer. He’d heard of people coming out of retirement; were there cases where they were _forced_ out of retirement?

‘I don’t know what the problem is, but I suggest notifying your local law enforcement agency or a lawyer.’

Marc and Oren spoke over each other. ‘I thought about it.’ ‘Didn’t you already try that?’ ‘Tried that. Didn’t work.’

‘You seem to be able to make things happen, that, well - let’s call them _the officials_ \- can’t do,’ said Oren. ‘I don’t know exactly _what_ you did for me, or _how_ ; all I saw was the results. I don’t question your methods. I just want to get my friend some help. He deserves it. He won’t question your methods, either.’

Mark spoke up. ‘I need help to close my old man’s church, Mr. Ford.’

‘Close a _church_? You mean...’

‘Shut the doors, close it, tear it down if necessary. Yeah. Whatever it takes to put it out of business. Put my old man out of business. That kind of close-it-down.’

Nate, from the point of view of a lapsed Catholic, asked, ‘Is this church overseen by a Diocese, or…’

‘No, it’s a stand-alone. Pentecostal-based. Sort of. My dad owns and operates it.’

‘So, your father is the, what, the preacher? And who, exactly, is your father?’

‘His name is Jack Reynard. Calls himself _John of God.’_

'Ah,' said Nate. He was familiar with this particular faith healer as well as other notorious such con-men: Benny Hinn, Kathryn Kuhlman, Ernest Angley and the like, and had once actually formulated a long-range plan to take action against all of them. He never brought the plan to fruition; the scope of such operations was too massive an undertaking. Like the _Value-More_! stores, it was simply too big for the team to handle. His mind was clicking now. _Eliot had brought down one store; just one store. It was feasible to bring down just one faith healer. This could start a new trend..._

‘You, ah, want to destroy your father's ministry.’

‘It’s not a ministry, Mr. Ford. It’s an abomination. It’s a freakin’ _cult_. He's ripping people off. If that isn't enough reason, I have more.’

Nate took a sip of his whiskey. His brain continued to rev up like a sluggish old engine sputtering to life. His heart beat faster; his blood pressure rose slightly. Nate felt charged to his fingertips. The prospect of shutting down such a church - and he could imagine the reasons - captured his interest. He carefully masked his racing thoughts behind his best poker face.

‘Boys,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m going to have to give it some thought. I also want to talk to my personal consultant. We’ll meet back here tomorrow. Here’s my card.’ Nate handed them a simple black card with his name and cell in gold lettering, effectively dismissing them. He was glad to see them leave. Now he could finish his whiskey in peace before he went back to work… _on the first case he’d considered in five years? No. Hard work. Real work, as in making up with Sophie._

**~~~~~**

Responding to the rather hesitant tap on the door to her hotel suite, Sophie peered through the peephole. She stood back, hand to her chin, considering for a few moments before opening the door. Nate shifted his weight from one foot to another, looking rather sheepish. 

‘Hi,’ she said, simply.

He couldn’t read her tone. ‘I, uh, wasn’t sure you’d be willing to see me.’

She turned away, standing with her back to him. ‘Yeah, well, you didn’t call, but yeah, come on in. I, uh… ' She clicked her tongue and took a deep breath. 'I missed you.’

‘I missed you, too. You know, you never called _me, either_ , and you said you would.’

‘Like I said, Nate, I was, um, doing some thinking...’

Nate gingerly moved past her and looked around the tastefully appointed room. ‘Nice, very nice place. 'So… um...’ Nate watched her pick up a few things and put them away before he tested the waters with a toe. ‘What've _you_ been up to?’

‘What have _I_ been up to? What’s with the emphasis? Sounds like _you’ve_ been up to something.’

‘Maybe… maybe,’ he said. Sophie’s antennae was up; perceptive as always.

‘I needed some time… you needed some time…’ she shrugged. 'So...'

‘Yeah...’ Nate sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. ‘I guess we did.’ The silence between them lengthened, rather uncomfortably. Nate began to wish he had a Scotch.

Sophie sank into the chair facing him and gazed out the window. The next moment she was up, pacing the room; her whole demeanor changed. ‘Well!’ she said suddenly, throwing her arms wide, ‘I, for one, _have_ been up to something; and it's been wonderful! I've been engaged in theatrical endeavors once again. You of course, remember Zachary.’

‘Your former theater student, yes. He teaches drama now, if I remember correctly.’

‘Ah, beneath the snark, you were paying attention!’

Nate shook his head ruefully. ‘Yes, Sophie, I was paying attention to what you were saying in the car.’

‘That’s not all he’s done. He bought an old theater, completely refurbished it, and he runs it now. He’s the _director_. Isn’t that thrilling?’

Nate hadn’t seen Sophie this excited in months. He smiled at her.

‘And you’ll never guess what he named the theater.’

‘I'm guessing he named it for the old _Dolan,’_ Nate said. ‘You know they tore the original down after that last job.’

‘Yes, and that was a crime. But, no, you’ll never guess. He named it… _Devereaux Theatre_. I never felt so honored!’

‘Nice. Very nice.’

‘You don’t seem all that impressed.’

‘I am, _I am_ , Soph’... I mean it, that’s fantastic. I, uh… I actually came to ask you something,’ he said softly, looking up at her.

Sophie tilted her head down at him, waiting.

‘Are you still interested in _listening_?’

**~~~~~**

Light broke through the blinds and spread its rays upon the bed in striped patterns. Sophie, her hair thoroughly disheveled, stirred and sat up in bed. _‘Uh, Oh.’_

‘Hi,’ said Nate, repeating the very same words he had spoken to Sophie the first time they slept together.

‘This isn’t San Lorenzo, Nate! That was years ago!’

‘Sorta ended up the same way, though, didn’t it?' he grinned at her.

Sophie had listened, all right, but not in the way Nate had meant, regarding Oren's case. By the time Nate finished telling her about the potential new job, she not only agreed to accompany him the next day to meet the new client, she invited him to dinner in her suite and afterward, to spend the night.

She even had the hotel press his suit so he wouldn’t look like a slob going back to the Brewpub.

Things were looking up.

**~~~~~**

Nate’s bloodshot eyes were hidden behind sunglasses as he drove to the Brewpub. He parked the car. He and Sophie walked down the raised sidewalk and looked up at the old building that held so many memories.

‘Last time we were here we were leaving Portland forever,’ Sophie mused. ‘Our old base of operations seems to have worked a little magic on us,’ she ventured. 'We haven't shot each other since Paris. Thought we would have by now.'

Nate nodded and chuckled as he held the door open for her. ‘I rather prefer last night’s solution to our problems.’

Sophie gave him one of her mysterious smiles. ‘Your client called you, didn’t he?’

‘He called,’ Nate affirmed. ‘Let’s sit in a booth back here and wait.’

A young, blonde waitress came to their table, took their drink orders and left. Before she could return with a wine spritzer for Sophie and a double for Nate, Oren Metz made his appearance, accompanied by Marc Reynard. Nate half-rose from his seat and motioned them over.

Sophie remained seated. ‘Our clients?’ she whispered.

‘The young one is. I need to figure out how to get Oren to stop tailing him. Now don’t forget, I haven’t heard the whole story yet,’ Nate cautioned.

The boys approached their table.

‘Please, sit down,’ said Sophie, casting a glance at Nate. He didn’t seem to be his usual, blasé self. Of course, his slightly shaky demeanor could be attributed to a hangover… _that and the fact that he’s just rusty_ , she thought. _He just needs to get back on the bike. It’s been a while._

Introductions were complete by the time the waitress returned to get the newcomers’ order.

‘While we wait, why don’t you tell me where you know Oren from, Marc,' said Nate. 'May I call you Marc?’

Marc nodded. ‘Oren and I met at a bar. We see each other frequently since we live in the same neighborhood.’

Oren spoke up. ‘Go ahead and tell him, Marc. You don’t have to hide it. Don’t let your father talk out of your mouth.’

Nate looked from Oren to Marc. Sophie, perceptive as always, nodded; she knew what Marc was going to say.

‘We met through the gay community, Mr. Ford. All of us, well, some of us sort of gravitated to one neighborhood.’ Marc glanced up at Nate. A bloodshot pair of eyes, seemingly weary with the weight of the world, returned his gaze evenly. There was no recrimination, no prejudice. Marc relaxed.

‘Are you partners?’ Sophie asked gently.

'No. I have a partner but I... I haven't actually seen him in several days.’ 

‘Marc and I, we’re just friends,’ said Oren. ‘If I may, it’s so good to see you, Sophie. Thank you - again.’

‘For what?’ she asked, smiling.

‘For _listening_ ,’ he replied.

The waitress came bearing a tray with craft beers for the boys. At Sophie's request, Nate ordered another double and Sophie another spritzer - along with a tray of appetizers. Keeping food on Nate’s stomach was the key to keeping him even slightly sober.

‘OK, so, you said you want to close your father’s faith-healing operations. So let's talk about it,' Nate suggested in a tone that Sophie knew to mean _let’s get down to business._ ‘Last time I saw you, you told me you had plenty of reasons for doing what you want to do. Let's enumerate them, for starters.’

Marc sipped his beer before he answered. ‘First, you should know there’s not one shred of proof other than the obvious: Dad’s lifestyle in and of itself is suspicious. He’s wealthy; in fact, I think he’s the wealthiest faith-healer evangelist in the world.’

Nate shook his head. ‘I think Kenneth Copeland holds that record, son.’

‘He did, until recently. Dad has passed him up. I haven’t lived at home since high school and when I go back, the changes are pretty obvious. Just to please the old man I go to church now and then - or should I just say _stadium -_ and every time I go, there are more and more people are in the seats. I visit him at home. Have you seen that mansion? I’ve been on his yacht. _The green one, not the blue one;_ he doesn't take that one out very often, he says. He offered to have his pilot fly me to Vegas for my graduation; the Stratos 714, not the Beechcraft Premier. He also has a Cessna Citation. His healing methods are _very_ suspicious, and... just call it a, a _gut feeling_ I have that he’s tied up in some other, very unsavory activities… all covered up in the name of religion. He has so many people buying into his bullshit, I can't even tell you. _Where is all this money coming from?_ I mean, he condemns me for the way I am, and yet...‘

‘And you’ve consulted law enforcement, you said; or you tried to.’

‘Mr. Ford, do you know what it’s like to be gay and have dealings with law enforcement?’

‘There’s that,’ Nate conceded.

‘Yeah, there’s that.’

Oren piped up. ‘Mr. Ford, Marc has also told me something I think you should know…’ Oren glanced at his friend. 'Is it all right if I tell him?'

Mark nodded.

_Unseen by Nate and Sophie and unnoticed by Oren, who was now talking to Nate,_   
_Eliot and Hardison surreptitiously crossed the back of the room. Silently, they_   
_slipped into the booth directly behind their old boss. The new booths had rather_   
_high backs so it was easy to eavesdrop while remaining undetected._

‘The reason these cures, or healings, or whatever you want to call it, look so suspicious is that people come in with ailments and they leave looking like they took a big hit off a bong.' 

‘I’ve seen faith healers at work,’ said Nate. ‘It’s such an obvious scam any amateur should be able to spot it. I’ve seen people go up to the stage limping, with one leg shorter than the other, and the preacher (Nate made air quotes) "heals" them and makes their legs equal length. Turns out they were _plants_ , holding one hip higher than the other, or by some other trickery. Same thing can be done with arms. Crooked spines. Things like that.’

‘No, he doesn’t do that,‘ said Marc. 'Some people keep coming back like they’re returning for their fix. I think for starters, you should go to a service and see for yourself. Would you be willing to do that?’

‘Not without security along; I won’t permit it.’ Eliot's sudden proclamation from behind the booth startled both Nate and Sophie, who gasped, eyes wide with surprise. Marc and Oren weren't sure what was going on.

 _'Boys!!_ ’ Sophie exclaimed, rising to hug first Eliot, then Hardison. ‘How did you know we were here?’

‘We caught'cha. Eavesdropped,’ Hardison confessed.

‘Lurked,’ Eliot amended.

Nate had risen from the booth; emotions shoved words aside for several moments; strong handshakes and shoulder hugs and even kisses were gleefully exchanged. Sophie wiped her wet eyes carefully to preserve her makeup. ‘Where’s Parker?’ she asked at last, sniffing.

‘She’s on a case, doing the preliminary work,’ said Hardison. 'Wait till she finds out you're here!'

‘When did ya’ll get here?’ asked Eliot.

‘It’s, ah, been a few days. We were coming to see you,’ Nate hedged. No sense in calling attention to his and Sophie’s difficulties; anyway, for now at least, the whole thing appeared to be moot.

‘I think we’re being rude to our clients,’ said Sophie. ‘Sorry, Oren and Marc, we just haven’t seen these boys in several years, have we, Nate?’

Nate shook his head. His red eyes were suspiciously moist. He invited the boys to join them. Hardison declined. ‘Looks like you’re busy; we can catch up later. Great to see you, Oren,’ he said. Eliot waved and started back to the kitchen. Hardison followed. Nate and Sophie could hear the thread of an argument start back up, growing fainter as the boys retreated. They exchanged an amused glance. Some things never changed.

Nate resumed his seat, as did Sophie. ‘OK - now - where were we?’ 

**~~~~~**

Oren and Marc left the Brewpub about an hour later, somewhat relieved. Mr. Ford had agreed to take Marc’s case. As they approached their separate cars, Marc called to Oren. 

‘Hold on, Dude. Lemme borrow your phone.’

‘Where’s yours?’

‘Let’s just say it was the victim of a temper tantrum. Ordered a new one; hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Sure.’ Oren tossed over his phone.

Marc stepped away a few feet to make his call. Oren could hear Marc’s voice rising, seemingly in anger; whoever he was talking to was getting an earful. Then his voice fell, and Oren could no longer make out anything being said. Not that he was supposed to be listening to his friend's business, anyway.

Marc came back to his car, strangely quiet and subdued. He handed Oren his phone.

‘Thanks, man.’

‘Sure thing. Listen, you’ve got the ball now with Mr. Ford, run with it. I know he’ll do all he can. I gotta get back to work. You need anything, call… as soon as your phone comes in. All right?’

Marc simply nodded, got in his car and drove off.


	11. Hardison's Mystery Meat

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**_An hour earlier_ **

‘Okay, listen up. Juan, Rene, Hakim and Midori are on for the evening dinner service tonight. Same schedule through Tuesday,’ Eliot Spencer instructed his kitchen staff. ‘The rest of you will handle lunch and Happy Hour, again, through Tuesday.’

He gave the entire kitchen a once-over and nodded approvingly. ‘Everything looks good, guys. Well done. Anna called in sick so I need another waitress this afternoon. Who wants some overtime?’

‘I do!’ Tina’s hand shot into the air. She wended her way forward.

Eliot grinned at the young college student. ‘You haven’t been here very long, so here’s the deal. After lunch, it’s pretty much dead in here until Happy Hour. So it’s light fare: chips, dip, appetizers and drinks; pull a few beers for the locals. Got it?’

‘Got it. Thanks, I can use the money,’ said Tina.

‘I’m gonna do some inventory in the back. Yell if you need help.’

As a part-owner in the Bridgeport Brewpub, Eliot took his responsibilities very seriously – so seriously, in fact, that he was constantly butting heads, arguing and generally getting on the nerves of one of his three business partners; the one with the soaring imagination and lack of business sense. 

**_~THEN~_ **

_‘Hardison, you’ve gone too far this time.’_

_‘Hey, man, we’re in Portland. Gotta do as the hippies do!’_

_‘I have no problem going green, all right?! I put in your tank-less water heater and your low-flow faucet and all your solar-powered crap. But composting, Dude? Seriously, it stinks in here!’_

_‘That, my friend, is the sweet smell of sustainability. Now, let’s see what’s next. Oh, we got some recycling bins. You gotta put those in. There’s a cardboard crusher… ’_

**_~AND...~_ **

_‘I bought the microbrewery. Dude, we brew our own beer now.’_

_‘This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever come up with, Hardison. Pairing food and drink… it’s hard enough with the wine, okay? They have textural and taste consistencies throughout both the vineyard and the grape categories. Okay. But you’re not dealing with wine, you’re dealing with beer. It’s got a stronger palette. The brewpub menu is the hardest menu to design.’_

**_~AND...~_ **

_‘Here is the first of my new batch,’ Hardison had announced, proudly._

_Nate had voiced his preference for whiskey and Sophie asked for a glass of white wine. Whether from a sense of cluelessness or slavish devotion, Parker had insisted they all ‘drink our juice!’_

_Hardison looked on while his teammates tried his beer and all but choked trying to be polite and get that first mouthful down._

_After Eliot set down a tray of Black Porter Chili, he took a sip and immediately spit it back into the glass._

_‘Hey, I saw that!’ Hardison protested._

_‘Are you kidding me with this, man? You can’t serve this to people. They’ll shut you down before you even get started. You can’t learn how to make beer online!’_

**_~NOW~_ **

Eliot had set Hardison straight with stern admonitions and intimidating glares. Five years had passed in which, unfortunately, the need to do so had not diminished. 

Eliot checked the contents of the enormous pantry against his clipboard and pulled the big industrial-sized refrigerator door open. Properly wrapped and stored food and leftovers were neatly arranged. The stock was low on only a few of the most-used ingredients and popular items. Main menu items such as bacon, beef, chicken, cheeses and potatoes for fries were okay but they were low on onions, peppers, artichokes and spinach. Eliot noted these items on his clipboard. As the Chef de Cuisine, he was extremely proud of the original spinach-and-artichoke dip he’d created; a favorite on the _Starters_ menu, which complemented many of their craft beers to perfection.

He was about to close the large refrigerator door when a cheap plastic storage tub on a lower shelf caught his eye. He knew it contained nothing he’d ever made; he used sealable glass containers. Anyone who worked for him used the same thing if they wanted to keep their job. He _did_ know who had a bad habit of storing leftovers in such an abomination. He couldn’t seem to convince Hardison that incorrect packaging spoiled the taste of the food. The very idea was insulting. He took the container out and placed it on the tiled island. Frowning, he removed the lid. A rather disagreeable odor assailed his nostrils.

 **_‘Hardison!!’_ ** he yelled.

The tall, dark-complected computer genius tapping his computer in the lounge next to the kitchen rolled his eyes when he heard that familiar roar. Fatalistically, he rose and ambled down the hall. When he got to the kitchen he cautiously peeked around the open doorway.

‘You rang?’

‘Would you mind telling me what the hell _this_ is? I know this is _yours_ , Hardison. So what is it?!' With a fearsome scowl on his handsome features, Eliot tilted the container and its contents for his partner to see.

Hardison’s expressive eyes widened in indignation. ‘Just in case you didn’t know, I was in the middle of writin’ a _very_ difficult, very _complex_ line of code.’

Eliot’s eyebrows rushed together. ‘I don’t care if you were in the middle of writin’ to _y’Mama_ , I wanna know what this shit is!’

Hardison entered the kitchen. These steps might be his last, but he had to be a man about it. ‘It’s sump’n I thought would be a nice change to the _Starter_ menu,’ he stated, firmly, confidently.

‘Change?! You _thought?_ What have I told you about brewpub menus?’

‘Hardest to design.’

‘ _Right,_ Hardison. We finally get the right balance of food to beer and you wanna _mess with that?!’_

‘What’s wrong with a little R&D?’

‘I’ll _tell_ you what’s wrong with it, man – I wanna know what the fuck this stuff _is_ , that’s what’s _wrong_ with it!’

‘Awright, awright… I tell ya. It’s somethin’ called _Kip-Kap._ ’

An uncomfortable few seconds passed while Eliot waited for Hardison to tell him exactly what _kip-crap_ was. He didn’t have to ask. His thunderous expression was enough to loosen his colleague’s tongue.

‘It’s a beer snack. _Really_ popular in Brussels. Sort of a lunch meat, made from pig cheeks or pig’s ears suspended in gelatin. Well, actually, it’s… it’s tastier than it _sounds_ , especially with a glass of lambic.’

Eliot stared at him. The Hacker, who had over the last five years become somewhat less intimidated by the Hitter, confidently continued his description, hands gesturing gracefully. ‘See, the gelatin has a faint lemony taste that gets along with the sour beer. The natural carbonation diminishes the notes of salt and fat in the meat. Adds a little mystery to the adventure.’ Hardison wound up his description, thinking it sounded like a true gourmet’s dish or an item worthy of a high-end restaurant. ‘Somethin’ ’long those lines.’

‘And… you think this will enhance our menu.’ Eliot’s tone was deceptively calm.

 _‘Yeah_ ,’ Hardison stated. ‘We haven’t added anything new in…‘

 _‘Dammit_ , Hardison! This ain’t Brussels, man! You expect me to actually serve _mystery meat_ to people?’

‘Now, y’see? Y' flyin' off the handle, completely misinterpreting…’

But Eliot cut him off. He took a deep breath and decided to take another tack. ‘Hardison… man… look, not only this crazy idea, but all the crazy ideas you've ever come up with, it’s all… like trickery, man. _Misconception_. It’s like with the jobs. Here? It’s _real_. This is real, Hardison. We serve authenticity with an unpretentious menu. It sells well because people want the honesty. _This?_ ’ Eliot closed the container, trapping the pink mess inside, and held it out. ‘This ain’t honest. And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else. It _ain’t_ appearin’ on our menu.’

Eliot held up the container, stepped on the lever that opened the large, bagged trash can and dumped the container in without watching it fall. It hit bottom with finality. He dusted his hands of the matter and turned on his heel to go out to the bar.

Hardison waited until Eliot was beyond punching range before he attempted to have the last word. _'You just afraid of a little experimentation!’_

Hardison returned to his office, fuming. He had no sooner sat back down at his desk to resume coding when Eliot came back. ‘Hardison! Man, you gotta come _see this_!’

Hardison, annoyed at being interrupted again, looked up. _‘What now?_ You ain’t finished bitchin’ about my Kip Kap yet?’

‘Just _come on_! And _keep your voice down!!’_

‘You wouldn’t try to trick a brother, now, wouldja?’ Hardison asked, even as he was being hauled by the collar toward the bar.

Eliot shoved Hardison ahead of him. He pointed to the rear of the Brewpub, where two young men sat in a booth opposite a man and a woman, whose backs were turned to Eliot and Hardison. There was something very familiar about those shadowy outlines.

Hardison’s eyes widened. ‘Seriously? Is that who I _think_ it is?’ he whispered.

Eliot spoke low in his throat. ‘I think so. Both of ‘em. You wanna go lurk?’

‘You the master; I follow.’

‘How about you remember that next time you try to improve the menu!' Eliot growled. 'Bring a couple o’beers with you - and tell Tina to ignore us.’ 

Eliot grabbed a knit cap from under the bar, slid it on and unobtrusively moved to the booth behind the group. Hardison joined him and sat with his back to the couple. They kept their heads down, listening; the argument over _Kip-Kap_ forgotten in the excitement that Nate and Sophie were back, just inches away.


	12. Revelations

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The meeting engineered by Oren Metz on behalf of his friend Marc Renard had come to a satisfactory end; Nate had agreed to look into Marc’s case. After the young men left, Nate and Sophie remained in the booth; one nibbling at the tray of snacks; one still imbibing, deep in thought. Their recent difficulties shelved for the time being; perhaps to be taken up again at a later time, Nate and Sophie pondered the facts of the case. Sophie listened to Nate mutter, almost to himself, turning Marc’s case over in his mind, intrigued as always by the way his mind worked. This time, however, there was a major flaw. Despite the truce between them and the delicious excitement of working again, everything was off-balance. No way could they even attempt a case with only the two of them. As brilliant as he was, could Nate not see that? Was the liquor again clouding his judgment as it so often had in the past?

‘As much information as we have, it’s still not enough,’ he concluded, ‘along with it being just the two of us… it’s gonna be hard to gather the intel we need, much less set up a con, unless you have any ideas…’

‘Gathering intel is the first step, but Eliot is right. You shouldn’t go alone. A man that rich, that powerful - he’s going to have plenty of security.’ Sophie dabbed a napkin to her lips and shoved the tray aside. Turning to Nate, she said, ‘You _do_ realize you’re missing a major factor in your calculations in how to proceed with this case, don’t you? Three, in fact.’

‘Yes, of course I realize that, Sophie, but they have their own case going; no telling how many more irons in the fire, either. Hardison just got through saying Parker was doing the prep work. Tonight was just a passing hello. You don’t visit someone and say _Hey, howya doing; let’s go to work.’_

‘Nate, all they have to do is say no.’

‘There’s that.’

‘There is that.’

‘Personally, I think they owe you a favor. Several, in fact.’

Nate twirled his glass while he considered Sophie’s statement. He shrugged. ‘Maybe they do.’

‘There’s no _maybe_ about it. Where would they be if not for you? If Dubenich hadn’t handed them to you? Parker would be in a French prison… Hardison in an Icelandic prison… Eliot would be _dead_ …’

'Seriously?'

'Yes, seriously!'

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Care to wager?’

‘Look, we’re wasting time here. Let’s go up and talk to them. Maybe they’ll throw in.’

‘Now? Right now?’

Nate consulted his watch. ‘Have you ever known any of ‘em to go to bed before two a.m.? And you know Eliot sleeps only ninety minutes a night.’

‘That was then. He’s older now!’

‘We all are, in case you haven’t noticed.’ Nate grinned as he stood up. He drained the last of his whiskey. Taking Sophie’s arm, he gallantly led her to where he remembered the elevator was and found himself facing a blank wall with a large painting hung above a service table. The wall made a jog of several feet before it extended to a rather dark corner. The two of them backtracked, ending up in a corridor that led to the bathrooms. Around the corner was the front double door that led to the kitchen and around another corner was a lounge complete with couches and a TV with another door into the kitchen. They backtracked again and separated, only to meet back at the bar.

‘This is insane. What’d they do, turn the pub into a funhouse? If we can’t get upstairs can we at least get out of here?’ Nate said, irritably.

A familiar voice spoke up right behind them. ‘Pretty rude to get out of here when you haven’t even said hello.’

Sophie’s eyes grew wide. _‘Parker!’_ She hugged her old partner fiercely. Nate took his turn, even kissing Parker on the cheek. ‘Well, we were on our way to the offices and got lost.’

‘Yep, Hardison redesigned practically the whole building a few years back.’ Parker hooked her arms into theirs and guided them back to the dark corner, where she pressed a concealed button. A sliding door revealed a large elevator complete with mirrored walls and a bench; Nate watched in amazement as Parker operated a breath lock to set the elevator in motion to reach the third floor. ‘It’s keyed to just the three of us. No one else can use it unless we're with them,’ she said.

‘What’s on the second floor, where I used to live, and where you all set up the command center?’ asked Nate.

‘Security system and safe room.’

Nate and Sophie looked at each other. ‘Hardison,’ they said in unison.

‘No, actually, Eliot designed it.’

'That's impressive!' said Sophie. 

Nate chuckled. ‘Does Hardison kick the doors down now?’

‘He’s working on it,’ Parker grinned. ‘I kick a few myself when I’m in the mood.’

‘The silent cat burglar just bursting in?’ Sophie laughed. ‘Rather hard to imagine!’

Parker grinned enigmatically at her. The elevator doors smoothly parted to an amazing sight; a circular array of rooms. Parker took them on a brief tour. There were three beautifully appointed offices, a kitchen, and a den. The command center occupied the center of the area.

Parker ushered Nate and Sophie in. The lights were low; only the glow of the vast array of screens gave illumination. Some information; pictures mostly, were displayed on four of them. Eliot and Hardison were discussing them; their backs to the door. 

Hardison heard her enter. ‘Hey, Babe - 'bout time you got back. We’ve been looking at what you sent. Interesting stuff.’

‘I brought something even more interesting,’ said Parker, bringing the lights up.

‘Actually, Parker, we saw the guys earlier,’ said Nate, shaking Hardison’s hand and clapping Eliot on the back.

‘Yeah, they snuck in right under our radar,’ Hardison joked. ‘Having you guys here… man, it's like old times.’ His eyes were suspiciously moist.

Eliot kissed Sophie on the cheek, whispering so only she could hear, ‘I did as you asked.’ 

She smiled at him. ‘You've done a stellar job,’ she whispered back.

‘I gave ‘em the tour,’ said Parker. ‘Had to rescue 'em first.’

‘Don’t tell me. You got lost,’ Eliot grinned.

‘A little,’ Nate conceded.

‘What you’ve done with the place - it's incredible!’ Sophie commented. ‘So, how has Leverage International been going?’

Eliot spoke up. ‘Awesome, man, we’ve pulled off some fantastic jobs, thanks to the Black Book. Not as many as before, but big on returns. Still plenty of bad guys to take down. Parker’s done a damn good job being in charge. We all mix it up; our skill levels have become pretty much interchangeable, except... '

‘Except?’ Nate raised his eyebrows.

‘Well… Hardison is still Hardison.’

Hardison bugged his eyes at Eliot. Sophie hid a giggle behind a cough. _Some things never changed._ Her eyes grew misty as she looked around. A large bowl of popcorn, a bowl of gummy frogs and beer and orange soda graced the coffee table set in front of comfortable sofas. _Yes, some things never changed._

After about an hour of casual chatter, Nate turned to look intently at the screens. 

‘That, ah, that looks interesting. Is this a case, might I ask?’

‘Yeah, something new. Outside Black Book intel. Me and Parker brought it home to chew on. Eliot thinks it may have possibilities.’

‘Do you mind?’ asked Nate, gesturing toward the screens.

‘Not in the least; maybe you’ll have some insight. Okay, Parker? Eliot?’ Hardison’s partners nodded and took their old places on the sofa, making room for their guests. ‘Nate, whatever you and Sophie want; help yourselves. Plenty of snacks and drinks in the kitchen.'

'Thanks, Hardison.' Sophie selected a cold bottle of water and handed another one to Nate. He rolled his eyes at her but he accepted it. Now wasn't the time to bring up that particular argument, anyway. Maybe it was better to have a clear head now, to hear what the others had to say. 

'You spent all afternoon with the client, didn't you, Babe?‘ Hardison asked Parker.

'Yeah. Dumb alias, Hardison.'

'What, _Lucy Whitmore_?'

'Yeah! Dumb! What's with a movie character who loses her memory every twenty-four hours? You couldn't think of anything else?'

'Sorry, Babe.'

'Next time pick another name!'

'What did you _learn from the client_ , Parker?' Eliot asked, exasperated. 

'It's bad,' said Parker, suddenly serious. She gave a short bio on her client for the benefit of Eliot, Nate and Sophie. ‘He’s staying at his mother’s house. There was no funeral. He’s just… devastated. He hasn’t been to work since it happened and he hasn’t been home. He's just... hiding in her house, unable to function, going through photo albums, keeping her room just the way it was, not eating... I'm really worried about him.’

‘Since _what_ happened?’ asked Nate.

‘Dude lost his mother. They were pretty tight, man. Really close. Only child, you know the drill. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over losing her.’

‘How’d she die?’ asked Sophie. ‘Car accident?’

‘Keeled over in a _church_ , man. Just dropped dead. I mean, her son was there; he said he saw the faith-healer - the preacher - touch his mother, but instead gettin' _slain in the spirit_ , she just got slain.’

Nate and Sophie looked at each other.

‘Preacher, did you say? A faith-healer? How big of a church?’

‘ _Humongous_. Damned... I dunno, man, a former sports arena. Why?’

‘Sophie and I were recently approached by a young man who suspects that his father, who's a faith-healer, is conning people out of their money and is involved in other suspicious activities, like maybe drugging people. We agreed to take his case and were actually coming to ask if you wanted in on it.’

‘For real?' said Hardison, excited by the idea. 'Team up again, like the old days, on a couple o'cases?’

‘That’s right, Hardison... only... I think Sophie and I... and you three... are basically working on the _same case_. Let me guess. The preacher's name was... _John of God_.’

'You nailed it,' said Hardison. 'Oh, my God.'

'Here's hoping he's listening,' said Nate.


	13. What's Our Way In?

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Nate glanced at each of his newly reunited crew seated around the table. His team. His friends; his family. They had somehow, almost seamlessly, picked up where they left off five years ago, working on a new case as if they had last worked together only yesterday. He gestured toward the wall of screens.

‘Let’s see what you have so far, Hardison.’

Hardison keyed the remote. ‘John David Renard, aka John of God - college degree in theology; minored in business. Started off as a visiting preacher, sometimes a backfill. Rose through the ranks and garnered his own following. For the last twenty years or more he’s delved into faith-healing. Claims his gifts come directly from God.’

Eliot snorted, audibly.

‘Go on, Hardison,’ Nate directed.

‘He’s quite the actor. Competitive. Driven to succeed. Silver-tongued devil, all dressed in white. People seem to believe every word he says. He pulls in millions of dollars, worldwide in tithes alone, but his portfolio seems to have grown lately; still looking at his financials to track down the reason. Maybe he sold or traded some stocks. His base of operations is here, but he has ministries in several other countries; pretty widespread.’

‘Other than his son, what family is there?’

‘None - wife died when his kid was young. Cancer.’

Eliot spoke up. ‘His wife had _cancer_ ? And he wasn’t able to fix _that_?! And people still go to him for-’

‘Desperate people do strange things, Eliot,’ Nate said with a mysterious, knowing smile. ‘So what does John have in personal property?’

Hardison pulled up some records on the screens. ‘Aside from the former basketball stadium he converted into a church, there’s a twenty-room mansion as you can see, plus twelve assorted cars and limos in that garage there. That’s not all. At the local airport he keeps three small jets and… at the marina, two yachts. One was purchased only five years ago…… hmmm.’ Hardison touched his chin.

‘What, Hardison?’

‘Look.’ Hardison approached the screens and pointed to the data in question. ‘The purchase of the second yacht seems to coincide around the time his financials soared.’

Nate looked closely at the data. ‘Interesting. We’ll check that out. Anything else?’

‘He not only does healing sessions during church services; he conducts sessions in private homes. Me’n Parker found out that our client’s mother was paying from $250 to $500 per visit. Multiply that by, say, a dozen people getting personalized treatment and you get… ’

‘Yeah… yeah. Quite a side job.’

Nate got up from the table and paced, thinking, sipping a whiskey. Three pairs of eyes followed him. He halted when he felt them staring at him. He looked at his glass, and back at them.

‘Is this gonna be a problem for you?’

‘We could ask the same question, Nate,’ said Parker in an even tone.

Eliot glanced at Sophie, wondering what she found so fascinating about a piece of lint caught in her dress. He raised an eyebrow and turned back to join Hardison in their stare contest with Nate.

‘Okay. _Okay_ ,’ Nate conceded. He bolted what was left of the whiskey and set the glass down. ‘No more until this case is done. I don’t wanna jinx us or jeopardize divine intervention, should that be granted. We’re gonna need it with this case - or cases, as the circumstances allow,’ Nate remarked. ‘With as much as this old boy has, his financials must be through the roof. I know Kenneth Copeland held the record there for a while.’

‘Aw, Nate, he left him in the dust. _John of God_ is worth over $800 million. More than half a billion, depending on where you’re from, over and above Brother Copeland.’

‘Don’t call that man ‘brother,’ Hardison. He’s nothing but a con artist.’

‘I’s bein’ facetious,’ Hardison amended.

‘Well, be facetious about somethin' else,’ Eliot said, irritably. ‘Look, man… our usual _modus operandi_ is to find out what the mark wants and then give it to ‘im, right? OK, so, Nate, if this _John of God_ is as rich as you say he is, what in hell are we gonna to dangle in front of ‘im that he doesn’t already have?’

‘In other words, what’s our way in?’ Parker stated emphatically.

‘Good question,’ Nate replied. ‘What else you got, Hardison?’

‘I got one video some kid shot from his phone and posted on Facebook. Not exactly top quality.’

‘Let’s see it.’

The five Leverage associates watched the short, fuzzy clip of _John of God_ conducting a healing session. Nothing of a suspicious nature could be detected in the way he handled the supplicants; the routine was as described by their clients. The kid who took the video was giggling with his friends, obviously thinking it funny to watch his older sister flop backward into an usher’s arms. 

‘So what does this guy do?’ Eliot asked. ‘Any of these kinds of things I ever heard of were fakes. Even their congregation is rigged; they have plants in the audience, following a script. It’s all an act.’

‘They shouldn’t be so disrespectful of Jesus,’ Parker piped up.

Hardison replied to Parker in a rather patronizing manner. ‘That’s, um… that’s _right_ , Babe. He was the _True Healer_. Trouble is, guys like this one - this _John of God_ \- they see an easy way to make a living and, well, as the great P.T. Barnum once said, _there’s a sucker born every minute,_ and, well the suckers buy into it. The preachers get filthy rich off the backs of their congregations.’

‘And they call _us_ criminals,’ said Eliot, sarcastically.

‘Not only that, they pay no taxes. In effect, they’re making a living within a permanent tax shelter. A nice, comfortable, foolproof way of raking in the dough,’ said Nate with disgust.

‘Okay, what if, say, what if we can’t run a con on this guy, how about we just turn him over to the police? I mean, after we figure out what he’s doing and get proof of it,’ said Hardison, speaking before he thought.

‘Seriously? Just run to the cops? _Us?_ After gathering evidence in exactly _what legal way_? We’re square with Sterling and have been for years. We don’t want to give him an excuse to come after us again. I, for one, have had enough of that. You don’t want to lose the Black Book, do you?’ Parker said, heatedly.

‘Spoken like a true _inside man_ , Parker,’ said Nate

‘What about you, Nate?’ 

‘What _about_ me, Parker?’

‘Why don’t _you_ take the lead on this?’

‘Because it’s not one case, Parker, it’s two. I just need a little help on my end, and maybe we can help you guys on your end.’

‘I think it'd be easier to combine 'em.’

‘Our respective clients might not like that.’

‘We could talk ‘em into it.’

‘Parker, with the exception of this _John of God_ , these are two unrelated cases.’

‘We seem to be rather undecided on how to proceed,’ Sophie ventured. ‘I’ve been running the different cons in my head - long, short, you name it. I can’t find one that fits.’

‘It’s just like I was saying, Sophie, there’s nothin' to dangle in front of this guy,’ Eliot reiterated.

Sophie raised a hand. ‘His son is gay - how about blackmail?’

‘All he has to do is deny him,’ Parker stated.

‘ _I_ _will deny him before my Father who is in heaven_ ,’ Nate paraphrased under his breath.

‘Ummmmm, ok, what about the job we did at Value!More? _John of God_ could be Caroline Cowan.’

‘You’re grasping at straws, Hardison, but good try. I turned that rock over, myself. Not quite the same thing.’

‘Can I run a scandal on him? Get him in a compromising position?’ Sophie asked.

‘Not sure that would work - he seems steeped in _The Word_ ; his followers think he can do no wrong; I don’t think you’d shut down his entire operation with that. He’d get up there and preach forgiveness and be back hauling in Benjamins the very next day.’

‘I think one of us should pose as a supplicant to get a close-up view of what he does. I volunteer.’

‘Parker, that’s not a good idea. For one thing, if you stand up and expose him, no one’s gonna know you were faking it, and for another, we don’t know by what means he’s “treating” these people,' Nate said, with finger quotes. ‘I suspect, like Marc said, that he’s, in some way, administering drugs. No way would I expose you to that. But going to watch him should definitely be the logical first step. I need to see what the clients, both of ‘em, are talking about. Hardison, why don’t you go with me?’

‘Me? No. Nuh-uh. My Nana would skin me alive.’

‘Seriously? After all these years, is she- ?’

‘What’cha mean after all these years? Ol’ gal’s still kickin,’ hale and hearty!’

‘Hardison was raised Jehovah’s Witness, Nate. Don’t you remember? They’ve never practiced nor believed in faith healing from anyone other than Jesus himself,’ Sophie reminded him.

Nate looked at Hardison ‘Not even for a job?’

Hardison shook his head.

‘Fraid of a tiny little woman who comes up to your elbow, Hardison?’ Eliot jeered.

‘I seem to recall you bein’ on yo’ best behavior when you met her!’ Hardison retorted.

Eliot frowned at his colleague. ‘Hey, I’ll go with ya, Nate. Like to see this for myself.’

Nate tossed the keys to his Hitter. ‘You’re driving.’

Parker watched them go. She had things to do, too. She was going to talk to both clients. The team couldn’t do anything until they had all the facts. A pie was just pudding without crust and meringue. Eliot had taught her that.


	14. Parker Takes Point

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Hardison, out of breath from running to the parking garage to catch Nate and Eliot, banged on the window before they could take off. 

‘Guys!’ he panted, ‘Y’wanna do some serious lurking, y’might need these.' He held out a pair of intricately modified field glasses. 'My own design. Ya’ll sit up in the rafters; it's not so noisy; it's more private and you can still see the action as close as the front row. Built-in video and audio.' Hardison paused to catch his breath and spoke in his normal voice. 'It’ll record two hours and it can send a signal to your earbuds, if you’re wearing ‘em.’

Eliot pointed to his ear and nodded. 'Yep.'

'Just, ah, how do you know the higher seats are quieter and more private, Hardison?' Nate asked, with a grin. Eliot snickered and gunned the engine slightly.

'Let's go, man!'

‘Seriously. Impressive, Hardison. Thanks.’ Nate took the heavy set of field glasses and peered through them, adjusting the focusing rings. He managed to cram them inside his jacket pocket. 

Hardison watched them drive off. On his way back to the office, he passed Sophie unlocking her rental.

‘Just got a text from Zachary - I’ll be helping him with his improv classes for a few hours. Nothing for me to do here, is there? No? So I'll see you this evening.’

Hardison nodded. As he got off the elevator on the third floor, he called for Parker. ‘Hey, Babe? Wanna grab some dinner?’ He was met with silence; no text on his phone, no note on the table. Parker had left. Hardison sighed and went into the kitchen to heat up a couple of Hot Pockets. ‘Well... ev’rybody’s off doing their thang - I might as well do mine,’ he muttered to himself. After all, for a man as wealthy as _John of God_ , there was a veritable mountain of financials to research.

**~~~~~**

Parker was fuming as she drove to Edith Mallory's old home. Seldom in the five years she had worked with Nate Ford had she been angry at him; on the contrary, she had considered him a mentor. She was angry now.

_He just comes in and takes over. Doesn't consider any plan but his own. I've been running big cases, Black Book cases, for years now. But then... I'm at fault too - I just automatically defer to him, don't I?_ Parker stopped scolding herself, shook it off and took a deep breath to focus on her own plans, which she intended to carry out. She hoped Kam would be at his mother's house; she needed to talk to him.

There were several cars parked on the street in front of the old home. As she drew nearer, she saw Kam's car in the driveway. She went up the steps and knocked. Her client cautiously opened the door and stared at her through the screen. He seemed distracted; it was a few moments before he recognized her, but then he smiled; apparently in a better frame of mind than when she last saw him. ‘Oh, Mrs. Whitmore... hello. Won’t you come in? I was just making tea; care for some?’

‘No, thanks, I just wanted to talk to you for a minute about your case. I haven’t seen you since the consultation and I was a little worried about you. Are you ok?’ Upon entering, she saw Marc standing in the living room to her left. ‘Uh... sorry... I didn’t know you had company.’

‘It’s ok. Mrs. Whitmore, this is Marc Reynard. Marc, Mrs. Whitmore. She’s the one I was telling you about. She and her husband are helping me with... with what happened to Mom.’

Parker did a very subtle double-take. ‘Your... your name is Marc Renard?’

Marc nodded and shook her hand. 'How do you do?'

‘Very nice to meet you,' said Parker, slowly. She slid her eyes from Marc to Kam. 'Uh, Kam, if it’s ok, can I talk to you in private?’

‘No need, Mrs. Whitmore, Marc knows everything that’s going on; he knows I hired you to investigate my mother’s death. In fact, he -’

‘But he’s… ’ Parker began.

Marc spoke for himself. ‘Mrs. Whitmore, Jack Renard, the preacher whom we suspect was responsible for the death of Kam's mother, is _my father, yes_. Believe me when I say I want my old man to pay for what he’s done. In fact, I’ve hired someone… ‘

Parker began to feel as if she was in the Twilight Zone. Hardison would no doubt be pleased to know she even thought of the reference. ‘Who did you hire?’ she asked directly, while she was thinking, _Wait for it..._

‘Nate Ford. He was referred. He and his wife met with me a few days ago.’

'Referred?'

'Yes, Oren Metz, one of your former clients.'

_Oh yes, the First Contact Job_ , Parker thought to herself, smiling. ‘Well, boys... I actually came to ask Kam's permission for us to combine the two cases.'

'Wait, does Nate Ford work for you?'

'Actually, I used to work for Nate Ford. We, uh, we're handling it together while he's here, if that's agreeable.' 

'We agree - on one condition,' said Marc. 'I need to talk to Mr. Ford first, about an issue I have. Kam and I were just discussing it.'

Kam glanced at Marc and nodded.

'I'm sure he'll agree to that. So... uh... how did this... how do you two know each other?'

'We’re partners, Mrs. Whitmore. In fact, Marc just asked me to marry him,' said Kam with a smile. His happiness was obvious and a complete turnaround from how he was when Parker had first met him.

Mark turned to his special guy. 'You're sure, Kam? You ready to leave the house now and come back home? We have each other and the Leverage team will square everything for us. You need to come home with me, Hon. Bring whatever you want and we'll deal with the rest of it later. It’s not healthy staying here by yourself, and I've missed you.' 

'I know. I just missed her so badly, I -'

'You’re gonna be _fine_. Your mom's always gonna be watching out for you. She's gonna be our guardian angel.' Marc enveloped Kam in a loving hug.

Kam wiped his eyes and turned to Parker. 'How about that tea, Mrs. Whitmore?'

Parker, rather surprised and astonished by what she had just learned, said, 'Uh, no, thanks, guys. There's something I gotta do. Congratulations to both of you! I'll give Nate your message. We'll be in touch.'

Parker slipped out the door as the two young men walked arm in arm into the kitchen. She was smiling as she walked to her car.

**~~~~~**

The massive parking lot was mostly empty. Nate and Eliot had deliberately arrived early to have a general look at the massive building and determine the best surveillance place. Once inside, Eliot did a cursory sweep of the left ground level corridor, while Nate took the right. A white-suited usher approached Nate. 

'Can I help you, sir?'

'Looking for my nephew. Ah! There he is. Thanks.' He loudly called to Eliot. ' _Did you find the toilet?'_

'Yeah!' Eliot called, as the usher hurried away. Eliot joined Nate behind a support beam.

'Find anything?' Nate asked. 

'Security cameras everywhere; a few dressing rooms made out of where the concession stands used to be and a bathroom for each two sections of seats. This was a basketball arena, all right. A damn usher asked if I needed something every time I turned around. Some rooms with locked doors. Signs said _Maintenance_ and _Office_.'

'Similar setup on this side, plus a big, soundproof nursery close to the front.'

'Looks completely normal.'

'Quicksand looks normal until you step in it.'

'True.'

'The music’s starting.'

'Let’s head north.'

On the very top tier, situated on one side with a clear view of the stage, they found a short row of six seats behind a security rail. The only thing above them was a small recessed structure in which a spotlight was mounted. It was unlikely anyone would bother them in that location. Gospel music wafted softly from the speakers mounted along the walls beneath them. Except for that, it was as quiet and private as Hardison had promised. They took their seats. Nate checked his watch. 

Eliot ventured a comment. 'Good to be working with you again, Nate.'

Nate nodded. He removed the field glasses from his jacket pocket and peered through them, adjusting for the light and distance. 'Feeling’s mutual.'

'Not sure just how we're gonna take this guy down.'

'He's a cheap charlatan, Eliot. We’re trying to con a conman. He's got all these people under his spell, not to mention the ones watching on their TV sets at home. Worldwide. That gives him a lot of power. Speaking of power, I think Hardison outdid himself with these.'

'Hardison's taken his skill set to a whole new level. But about this preacher guy... the bigger they are, y'know, the harder they fall.'

'Yes. I want him to fall. Maybe after we topple this one we’ll go after another one. And another.'

'Sounds like you’re coming out of retirement.'

'Maybe. I just may be. With what you guys have built - Leverage International - _maybe we can take them all down.'_ Nate spoke so forcefully, Eliot looked at him with surprise.

'Y'know, seems like you're takin' this case way more personally than the others.'

Nate was silent for a few minutes. 'Hits close to home,' he said, softly.

'How? Faith-healers like this one are like, Pentecostals or something; they ain’t Catholic. That's what you were, ain't it?'

'Yeah... yeah, I was. And you’re right about this particular type of faith-healer. I mean, the church preaches the intercession of saints; there’s a sacrament for anointing the sick; but nothing like this guy… ' Nate paused and shrugged. 'But then, again, there’s places like Lourdes.'

'Yeah, I’ve heard of Lourdes. I mean, it’s just spring water tricklin' outta the ground, man, now you know that’s gotta be - ' Eliot looked at Nate closely. He seemed on the verge of tears; his eyes were suspiciously moist in the glow from the spotlight. 'Wait, man, did you take your boy to _Lourdes_?'

Nate turned to look at him. 'Do you actually think I had the money to go to _France_ , Eliot?! Maggie and I, we mortgaged the house, we sold our car, everything we had saved was depleted after that son-of-a-bitch Blackpoole denied us coverage for Sam's treatment… Maggie actually suggested we try going, but there was no way. She knew it and I knew it.'

Eliot waited for Nate to go on.

'No, I tried it.'

'Tried _what?'_

Nate cleared his throat before he spoke. 'I never told Maggie... but I took Sam to a faith-healer. One not far from where we lived. Last-ditch effort to save my boy. The guy swore up and down he could get the cancer out. I didn't ask how. It was like a piece of performance art. It was a crock of shit. It was all fake, just like this guy is.'

Eliot was silent for a few minutes. 'That’s what you meant when you said _desperate people do strange things_ , ain't it?'

'Yeah.'

'I understand, man.'

'Do you? Have you any idea how much I wanna bring this guy down, Eliot?' Nate's voice was quivering. 'Do you have any idea how determined I am to fucking _destroy_ him? This case is hardball _all the way for me_.' 

Eliot nodded solemnly. 'They’re starting.'

The house lights dimmed and the stage lights went up. Nate handed the field glasses to Eliot, who pretended not to see Nate wipe his eyes with a handkerchief and stuff it back in his pocket.

From their vantage point they could both see the large chancel extending to the front row of seats. The pulpit was at the center front. While they awaited the appearance of _John of God_ , a robed choir filed onstage and began to sing a hymn. White-suited ushers could be seen passing large, velvet-lined, myrtlewood offering baskets. This took some minutes during which a church official, probably a deacon, welcomed the crowd to the services and thanked them effusively for their sacrifices. 

'They hit 'em with the money right up front,' observed Eliot.

Nate nodded. 'In Catholic churches they have two offering sessions. I'm betting this guy does, too. Another way of raking it in.'

By now, the crowd had settled down in anticipation of the appearance of _John of God_.

_'Act One, Scene One'_ said Nate, facetiously.

'Hope this won't be like one of Sophie's performances.'

'It'll be better. Trust me. Has to be. Theater performing is Sophie’s hobby; it’s this guy’s bread and butter.'

Presently, a large man in a dazzling white suit came from a side entrance, stepping boldly up to the chancel, arms extended to the masses. The crowd began clapping and cheering, their roars growing increasingly louder. _John of God_ grandly advanced to the pulpit, placed his hands on each side of it and gazed out into the crowd, slowly taking them in from left to right; from tier to tier. The overhead lights caught the diamond ring on his pinky and sent tiny beams sparkling outward. The congregation awaited his words with bated breath; some sat forward in their chairs as if waiting to be called to Rapture. At last he spoke. 

'My Brothers and Sisters in Christ. Welcome to the life-changing, healing services here at _Jehova-Rapha.'_

' _The Lord Who Heals_ \- that should be _Yahweh-Rapha_ ,' Nate said softly, almost to himself. ' _If thou wilt hear the voice of the Lord thy God, and do what is right before him, and obey his commandments, and keep all his precepts, none of the evils that I laid upon Egypt, will I bring upon thee: for I am the Lord thy healer_. Exodus 15:26.'

Eliot looked at him in surprise. Aware that Nate had once studied to be a Jesuit priest, he was still amazed at the depth of his old friend’s biblical knowledge. He turned his attention back to the pulpit.

'Good evening, Brothers and Sisters in Christ! We welcome our regular members, and for those of you perhaps visiting, let me introduce myself. I am your pastor, _John of God_. I believe the miracle power of almighty God is here for everyone today. I was visited by God when I was but seven years of age and was carried away by his spirit – carried, in fact, into the very stars of heaven. There were stars everywhere, millions and millions of stars and no way to number them… but God told me that the stars were souls that I would win for him. With this heavenly vision from God I bring to you his message of love, faith, hope, salvation, and best of all, healing for all mankind throughout the whole earth. So welcome to our life-changing, healing services! Your life will never be the same! Experience deliverance for your soul, your mind and your body! Whatever your need, we believe God has the answer and is willing to hear your prayer and heal you!'

The sermon continued for the next half hour. Nate and Eliot shared the glasses, each studying the man’s every move. _John of God_ commanded the stage. In his blazing white suit, he could not be missed as he strode the length and breadth of the chancel, relying on his lapel mike to carry his words to the far reaches of the arena. When he stood still, his feet were planted wide apart; his gestures were broad and powerful. He held his chin high; his entire bearing gave the impression that he had all the answers. Nate noticed one peculiar thing: a heavy cross swung from a chain around his neck. If, during a sudden move onstage it swung out of line, John lightly held it down with one hand.

'So sayeth the Gospel,' John concluded his sermon. 'Praise the Lord. It is God who heals… _through me!_ As you are here tonight for your body to be healed, I trust that you have already been preparing your heart and mind by reading scriptures, to receive healing from the Lord. Praise God. May all who come be healed tonight.'

Another hymn was begun, during which ushers helped people from the audience to come forward. They were helped up the steps or wheeled up the ramps and placed in two lines; ten ushers for ten people.

'Zero in on 'em, Eliot,' said Nate. 

'Got it,' said Eliot, lifting the powerful binoculars to his line of vision and adjusting the lens. Thanks to Hardison's technological ingenuity, Eliot could hear the audio clearly as one man in a wheelchair came forth.

_John of God_ asked if the man was born again in Jesus. The man nodded. 'Do you wish to be healed, Brother; get up out of that wheelchair and walk?'

'With all my heart and soul I do, John.'

'Then in the name of Jesus I command you to walk!'

The usher folded the footrests and the man grasped the arms of the wheelchair. He struggled to his feet, proclaiming his faith and gratitude. The audience clapped thunderously.

Eliot handed the glasses to Nate. 'That one’s a plant,' he whispered. 'His legs look pretty well muscled to have wasted away in that chair, don't you think?'

'Marc said he didn’t think his dad used plants but yeah, there’s the proof of it. Not even a limp.'

Two older women and a young man were next in line. With each, _John of God_ asked if they were born again. Their particular diseases were never mentioned. With all three, _John of God_ followed his usual procedure. An usher took his place behind each individual. _John of God_ raised his large cross in front of their eyes. _In the name of **JESUS**_ , he whispered to each one in turn. With his right hand raised in supplication to the heavens, he dropped the cross and slipped his left hand behind their heads, supporting them in the palm of his hand for a brief time. They relaxed and leaned their heads back into his hand. _**Amen,**_ he whispered to each one, after which he gently tapped their foreheads with his right hand. They would have slumped to the floor had not an usher caught them, gently allowing them to lie down on the floor. One by one, when they felt up to it, they were helped to rise and gently escorted back to their seats.

The next supplicant was a lithe young woman with most of her blonde hair concealed in a tightly-tied scarf. She kept her head tucked down while _John of God_ spoke to her. She said nothing; merely nodding in answer to the question he had asked of them all. Again, he raised the large cross. He cupped the back of her head and raised the other hand to the heavens. He whispered _**Amen**_ in her ear and tapped her forehead. Unlike the others, she didn't appear to be relaxed; she fell rather stiffly into the arms of the usher. She sat on the floor for a minute. 

Eliot had been watching closely through the field glasses. His heart began racing. There was no _Comm_ signal from the young woman, and no sound, but there was no mistake, either.

**_'Nate! That's Parker!!'_** ' Eliot hissed. He handed the glasses to Nate, standing up as if somehow ready to sail over the railing to the rescue.

'Some things never change,' Nate sighed, stashing the glasses. 'Come on. We'll get her but we have to be subtle about it. We don't want to alarm anyone.'

The two men made their way as swiftly as they could to wait for Parker to come back to her seat. Unlike most of the others, her steps were sure and steady; she waved the usher, who was assisting her, away.

Her expressive face simultaneously lit up and fell when she saw Nate and Eliot standing by her seat. ' _Darling_!' said Nate effusively. ' _Praise the Lord!_ You look _so_ much better! Are you hungry? You haven't been able to eat in _so long_ , I'm sure these nice people won't mind if we take you out to dinner!' he enthused for the benefit of those around them.

_'...and a nice, long talk_ ,' Eliot growled out of the side of his mouth. 

With Nate on one side, nodding and smiling to the people, and Eliot gripping her arm on the other, Parker was hurriedly escorted out of the arena.


	15. Close Calls and Serious Solutions

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The two men, hands gripping Parker’s arms, scolded her all the way through the parking lot to where Nate’s car was parked. ‘I told you not to do that!’ Nate yelled. ‘Haven’t you tamed that impulsive behavior by now?’

‘She’s better’n she used to be,’ Eliot grudgingly admitted, ‘but she still lets loose once in a while. Don’t you, Parker? That distinctive personality trait leaves you prone to acting on your impulses instead of thinking things through and considering the consequences… huh? You haven’t quite licked it, have you?’

‘Both of you, _shut up!_ Stop psychoanalyzing me!’ Parker forcibly twisted her arms out of their hands and furiously turned to face them. ‘How many times have we taken risks? All of us! When we were all working together, huh? How many times? How often were you outnumbered in fights? How often did your drunken antics put us in danger? You two sitting up there in the bleachers listening and watching - didja learn anything? Well, _did_ you? Do you know what _John of God_ is actually doing? Did you see it up close and personal? Smell it? Feel it? Well, _I did!_ Nate, if you don’t like what I’m doing, or how I’m doing it, you’re free to retire, _right back where you came from!’_

Taken aback, Nate looked at the ground. ‘We both saw him put something on your neck.’

‘Yeah. I went up there coated with liquid bandage and silicone sealant! Do you think I’m stupid?’

‘Don’t touch it,’ Eliot warned her, stating the obvious. ‘Let’s get back to the office. Hardison can analyze whatever it is.’

‘He can do that?’ ask Nate, surprised.

‘Told you he’d taken his skill set to a whole new level. Parker, where’s your car? I’ll bring it - you go with Nate,’ Eliot directed her. ‘Maybe you two can work things out on the way back.’

Nate nodded. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, waiting for Parker to latch her seatbelt. He released the parking brake and put the car into drive. 

‘Parker…’ he began. 

Parker, still angry, turned to look at him.

‘I apologize, Parker.’ Nate steered the car out of the parking lot on route back to the office. Not another word was said.

**~~~~~**

Sophie had returned from her visit to Zachary and The Devereaux Theatre by the time Nate and Parker arrived. Eliot filled her in and Hardison was already set up in his small laboratory to begin conducting tests.

Sophie helped Hardison, both properly masked, gowned and gloved, to remove the layer of silicone that had protected Parker from the effects of whatever it was John had administered to her. It peeled away easily in one piece until they got up into her hair. Hardison laid the piece carefully on a tray. 

‘Oh, my, Parker,’ said Sophie. ‘This stuff has bonded to your hair - but good. There’s no way we can get this out. Where exactly did he touch you?’

‘He went from my neck up into my hair. That’s why I was careful to apply it further up. I wasn’t taking any chances.’

‘Well… you did good, Babe, except we might have to cut this out.’

‘Seriously?’

Hardison peeked over her shoulder and stared into her eyes. The mask wiggled with the movement of his chin. ‘Seriously.’

‘All of it?’

Sophie lifted her old friend’s long hair and peered at her head from all angles. ‘Well… we’re going to have to clip it to the scalp from the crown down. We must make sure to get it all.’

Parker sighed. ‘Okay. It’ll grow back, won’t it. It’ll grow back. I’ll wear hats. All right, just do it.’

Hardison held the long locks up and Sophie first lopped off the excess. Then she carefully clipped as close to the scalp as she could get. She cut the rest to just below Parker’s ears. ‘We’ll have you looking like a pixie. Like Tinkerbell. Don’t worry.’

‘Lay it in this tray, Sophie.’

She obliged Hardison, placing the glued, blonde locks within the shallow receptacle.

‘Is that it?’ asked Parker. 'Am I done?'

Hardison sadly shook his head. ‘Eliot’s gonna come draw some blood and I need you to pee in this cup. Yeah - seriously. I wanna make sure none o'that stuff got in your bloodstream.’

Sophie had a thought. ‘All those people we think he’s drugging - what if they should get tested? Wouldn’t that bring the DEA down on John? Solve our little problem?’

‘From what we know, he’s only “treating” chronically sick people, who naturally wouldn’t get tested at a job because they can't work,’ Hardison replied, with finger quotes.

‘Makes sense, I guess. Parker, after all this is done, you go take a good, long, hot shower with a lot of soap. I mean, scrub like you're Karen Silkwood. Later on, we’ll finish your haircut,’ Sophie advised. ‘Maybe tomorrow. This day’s been long enough.’

‘Who?'

Hardison and Sophie replied together. 'Never mind.'

'You style hair now?’

‘Well, like Hardison, I’ve developed a new skill set, myself.’ Sophie smiled at her.

‘I’ll start work on this right now. Shouldn’t take long. Twenty-four hours for the blood and urine, anyway… ’ Hardison paused to look at his beloved Parker with most of her long, blonde hair gone. Of all her features, he had liked her silky hair the best. He sighed. ‘You look beautiful, no matter what,’ he smiled at her.

**~~~~~**

Parker joined Nate, Eliot and Sophie in the conference room; head enveloped in one of Eliot’s knitted caps. Hardison was still working in his lab, and had been for some time.

‘Ok, Parker,’ Nate said. ‘Tell us about your experience. We saw the whole thing, so just tell us what _you_ observed. What happened from the minute he walked up to you.’

‘It was so creepy! OK, you already know I didn’t have my earbud in; I was afraid he’d see it. So I just stood there trying to look sick. The usher dude stood right behind me. John picked up that big cross he wears on a chain around his neck. Now, you know that kind of little rubber protector thing they use for cut fingers? He had a flesh-colored one on his ring finger. That diamond ring is big and it fits over the end of the little tiny love glove to hold it on.’

Eliot choked off a quick laugh and swiftly straightened his face. ‘I think I know why he wears it. To keep from getting a dose, himself. But where's the dose coming from?’

‘I’m getting to that. He goes, _Do you want to be healed,_ in this really creepy voice, and I go _Yeah._ He says, _Are you born again -_ whatever that is - and I said, _Yeah.’_

‘Did he even ask what was wrong with you, Parker?’ Nate said.

‘No, he didn’t. He didn’t ask anybody. Then he like, whispered, _In the name of Jesus_ and when he picked up that big cross, I saw his finger press a button, and it discharged this little bead of stuff from the bottom, sorta like a Pez dispenser. He caught it on the tip of that ring finger and then he dropped the cross and slipped his hand behind my head. While he was waving at the audience with his other hand I could feel him rubbing it onto my neck and in my scalp, even under the scarf I was wearing, like he was caressing me; gave me the creeps! Then he whispered _Amen_ and tapped my forehead with his other hand. I’d watched the others sort of just faint and fall back, so I played it like that.’

‘Do you think the usher was in on it?’

‘I’m not sure. I was watching the others. I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Everybody seemed to be, I dunno, in their own little world.’

‘Religious fervor. Nearly seventeen thousand seats in that church - he can’t be drugging them all, so he strings them along with the performance art of those he _can_ drug; makes them think they’re witnessing miracles.’

Hardison opened the conference room door just as Parker said, ‘I really think if you’d left me there I could have learned more...’

‘I’m glad they didn’t, Babe. Results are back. You’re clear, no drugs in your system.’

‘Parker!’ said Sophie, feelingly. ‘That’s good news!’

 _‘But,’_ Hardison asserted, ‘if you’d left it on much longer, it could have leached into your skin. Silicone isn’t completely inert nor chemically unreactive.’

‘So what did you find, Hardison?’ asked Nate.

‘You ready for this? Because it knocked my damn socks off. I don’t know how that man or whoever he hired to do this managed it, but…’

 _‘Get to the point, Hardison!’_ Eliot was losing what little patience he had.

Hardison sat at the table and handed his analysis notes around for all to see. ‘In a THC-infused oil base, that dude has combined a mixture of,’ Hardison counted them off dramatically on his fingers, ‘Ephedrine. Ecstasy. I found a small percentage of Valium. And... Horse.’

 _‘Heroin??_ Are you _sure_ , Hardison?’ Eliot blurted.

‘I’m sure. It’s cheap and easy to get. It's the next lowest percentage of the mix; the highest is THC.’

'So you have stimulants, hallucinogens, sedatives and a narcotic,' Nate enumerated. _'Good God.'_

‘No wonder these people come out of there acting high, like Marc said. They _are_ high,’ said Sophie.

‘And in some people with certain conditions the doses are cumulative, ending up in a disaster - as in Edith Mallory.’ Nate drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Ok, Hardison, have you turned up any more fatalities from this church or any of the others he runs?’

‘Those outside the U.S. borders have been impossible to research; I mean, it would take years. Inside the U.S., you’re talking formal inqueries, exhumations, which most families ain't gonna go for, and forensic tests, not to mention the insurance ramifications. I haven’t found anything suspicious like Edith’s death, not so far. Nobody's lodged complaints or even questioned what's seemed to be your run-of-the-mill, everyday deaths for the last fifteen years. Nobody but Kam Mallory, that is.’

‘Well, that’s something. The potential scope of this is mind-boggling but it may be that we've stopped this cancer before it got a chance to metastasize.’

‘That still doesn’t negate the fact that there still may have been some other incidences,’ Eliot noted. 'They may pop up later.'

'True,' Nate admitted.

‘Have you told them what I told you, Nate? About Kam and Marc?’ Parker reminded him.

‘Not yet. Not sure if now is the right time.’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Well, the _first_ issue I learned after speaking with both of them certainly doesn’t matter. What _you_ don’t know is what they've asked of us.’

Eliot got up so abruptly from his chair he startled everyone. He poured a coffee and sat back down. They were all staring at him. Eliot glared at Nate. ‘When you decide to stop riddling and get to the point, _you let me know.’_

‘Fair enough, Eliot. Parker was a busy little bee the other day, weren’t you?’ Nate got to his feet and began pacing around the table. ‘I’ll start with the first issue. Before she went to the church, Parker went to see Kam. He's been living at his mother's house. Kam. Her client. Hardison’s client. I also assume, Eliot’s client.’

‘Oh, is that where you went the other day?’ asked Hardison. Parker nodded.

‘Marc was there,’ Nate continued. ‘ _Our_ client. Right, Sophie?’

Sophie nodded, smiling. She needed no hints to know what was coming.

 _‘So?’_ Eliot leaned forward on the table.

Nate spoke slowly. ‘Kam… and Marc… are _partners.’_

Hardison was surprised. ‘Seriously? You’re talking the-dude-that-lost-his-mother-and-the-dude’s-father-who-probably-killed-her are _partners?’_

‘Seriously.’

‘OK, fine, so _then_ what?’ Eliot asked.

‘Yes, you spoke of another issue,’ said Sophie.

‘This is where it gets _real,_ kids. I don’t know if they didn’t have a clear picture of what it is we actually do, or if they think we can do anything they want us to do, but… ’

 _‘Damn it, Nate!’_ Eliot slammed his hand on the table irritably.

‘Best not to lose your temper on this one, Eliot. They - both of them - _both of the boys_ \- have agreed between themselves. **They want us to kill _John of God.’_ **

Nate let them digest that for a moment. Each looked at the other. No one said anything. Sophie was speechless with astonishment; Hardison shook his head slowly and Parker's pixie face reflected bewilderment. Eliot looked down into his coffee cup. No one could guess what he was thinking. 

Defiantly, Nate went to the bar and poured himself an Irish. 'Sorry - sorry - I know I promised no more until this case was done. I didn't want to jinx it or jeopardize divine intervention; but right now I say _screw divine intervention_.' 

Nate raised his glass to his team in salute and took a sip. 

‘Personally,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m all for it.’


	16. The Missions

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It was nearing midnight when the white SUV pulled up behind the church's rear doors. The lights in the parking lot were off. Only a faint glow emanating from the double glass doors gave illumination. A stylishly-dressed woman released her seatbelt and stepped wearily out of the driver's seat. 'Come on, girls, this is our first stop.'

There were six young girls in the back seats and one in the front. Their ages ranged from twelve to eighteen. As the woman lifted the back end of the vehicle, she motioned them to remove their backpacks. Each girl grabbed hers in turn, giggling and chatting with the others. 

The woman was tired; this was the third trip she had made in the last twenty hours. Nevertheless, she cheerfully ushered the small group through the double doors of the church, where they were met in the hallway by a tall, heavy-set, middle-aged man who greeted them warmly and led them down a corridor to a door marked _Office_.

Behind the door was a large, inviting room with couches along each wall. Posters extolling the missions decorated the walls. In the center was a large table upon which rested a stack of hamburgers, hot dogs, and canned drinks. Already seated on the couches were fourteen more girls, some munching hamburgers, some engrossed in magazines. They had arrived at intervals through the day some hours earlier. There were books, magazines, and a portable TV on a small table. The new arrivals took their seats on the couches, shyly greeting the others. 

‘Girls, say hello; get acquainted. Help yourselves to some dinner and a soda. There's a restroom right around the corner. Get some rest, too, you still have a long way to go,’ said the tall man.

‘How long before we get there?’ asked one girl.

'How far is it?' asked another.

‘It's still several days to the missions,’ the tall man conceded. ‘Some of you will arrive at your destinations before the others. You're now at a waystation where we gather everyone together before boarding a bus which will take you to our ship. We need to get your passports completed, so be patient. Our missions are all over the world. You’ll be going to some exotic places, some exciting places, where we badly need help to spread the word of Jesus. This is what you all signed up for, is it not? Aren't you excited?’ The tall man rubbed his hands together as he gazed at each one. The large diamond rings he wore clinked softly.

‘I can’t wait!’ said one.

‘It’s gonna be awesome!’ said another. ‘I’d rather tend to sick children in a mud hut in Africa than tolerate my stepfather's abuse one more day.’

‘You certainly won’t have to worry about that,’ said the man. ‘You’ll be serving our Lord in ways you can’t imagine. Won’t that be nice? And it'll be fun, I guarantee you. I’m glad to see such nice young women with such dedication and exuberance.’

'Miss Janice?' asked one of the younger girls.

'Yes?'

'I have the card you gave me. I tried to access your website at a computer cafe and couldn't get in.'

'I know, Hon, our server is down. We're working on it.'

‘Miss Janice? Can guys join the missions?’ asked another of the girls. ‘I think my brother might be interested. He's still in foster care, though.'

‘Of course!’ said the woman. ‘When he's older. There’s another branch of _Working For Our World Missions_ for the young men. They're assigned the heavier jobs like building village huts and learning to install plumbing and dig wells. Whole different ball game. It’s policy to keep the groups separated until we reach our destination although, actually, you might meet some of them on the ship. And if you do, we expect you to be on your best behavior.’ Janice shook her finger playfully at all of them, eliciting snickers and giggles.

‘I’d rather do something like the guys do, build stuff and all, but I bet I'll get stuck nursing or cooking or cleaning or changing diapers,’ one of the newly arrived girls complained. She was fifteen; a tomboy with a large build; athletic and strong. 

‘Honey, I'm afraid I don't like your attitude,' said Janice with weary patience. 'Didn't you read your contract? You signed it. Do you wish to leave and go home? You’re more than welcome to do just that. Only thing is, the missions can't afford to send you home; you’d have to pay your own way. Do you want to do that? I’ll get your contract right now and void it for you. Just keep in mind that it’s not all as you described. You’re going to be well-paid for your work. Accept your assignment, whatever it may be, with dignity and grace. Save your money, and if after a while you still don’t like it, you can pay your way back then.’

The girl sighed. ‘No. I can’t afford to go home now, not all the way back to Cincinnati. But it’s only for six months, right?’

‘That’s right. Just six months out of your life for experiences not many girls get to have. You can stand it for that long, can’t you?

‘I guess so,’ she shrugged. 'Wish I could have brought more than just a backpack. I wanted to bring- '

'We will provide for your needs, trust me. And who knows? You might just be given an opportunity to "build stuff," as you put it. All right, then. Now, don’t worry. I'll admit; the training's hard; I mean it's work, you know; let's face it, it's not all play. Whether it's fun or not depends on you. You'll have some adjustments to make, but when you're making all that money, and know that you’re spreading the Word of God, you’re going to love it! Get some dinner and some rest now. Our bus is coming for us soon.’

The tall man spoke. 'If I may, Janice, I'd like to say a prayer for the girls, their work, and our missions.'

'Of course, Jack.'

He extended his hands toward the group of girls on the couches as he prayed:

'Our God; our Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, hear our prayer.  
We ask that these young women may serve our missions with loving hearts and strong bodies,   
and that Your Name may be praised among all peoples of the world whom they will serve.  
Sustain, inspire and enlighten Your servants who bring the Gospel to the world.  
Help us to continue our zeal for our missionary work.  
Protect these young missionaries who will follow You to the ends of the earth.  
Make us witnesses to Your people with strength and faith, for Your glory and the salvation of the entire world.  
_Praise Jeesus!_  
Amen.'

Most of the girls had bowed their heads through the prayer; some whispered 'Amen.' After the prayer they relaxed and began chatting among themselves, reading or watching TV. Some grabbed dinner from the table and unwrapped their hamburgers. All seemed content to wait for what was to follow.

Janice Hall and Jack Reynard smiled at them and left the room, softly closing the door. They moved a short distance away before holding a brief, whispered conference. 

‘Think that one will give you any trouble?’ Jack asked, frowning.

‘Who, the little brick shithouse? She might. What do you think of her?’

‘Little spitfire. Might even be gay and not know it; she's pretty stout. I like that type. Tell you what, if you don’t want to risk her, leave her with me; she'll be part of my payment. I’ll tell her the bus is full; she can take the next one.’

‘Gonna give her some _Blessed Ointment_ , Jack?’

‘You know me so well. The others seem to be in line. I prefer a smooth operation with no glitches.’

‘Yes, I know. This one's gonna be a piece of cake. They can't wait to go save the world. We'll have them on your yacht in no time, ready to sell to the best markets, all up and down the coast.’

'I see only one problem.'

'There are _no problems,_ Jack,' Janice said, exasperated. She had known this man for years and she was in no mood, nor did she have the energy, for any of his nonsense. 

'Yes, there is. I counted twenty-one.'

'So?'

'The bus holds twenty-three, not counting your seat or the driver.'

'Jack, for Chrissakes, I've been on the road _since four am!_ These little bitches are perfect; they're homeless; they're runaways; they're from shelters over at least a hundred-mile radius; I recruited some that aged out of the foster system... I can't make another trip tonight, and we can't keep them here overnight just to fill up the bus with two more. That's dangerous. It's stupid! Or do you want to let the big girl go? You only lose one that way.'

'Remember me saying I wanted a bus full every two weeks? This is not a bus full. And I'm keeping the girl.'

'In the next two weeks, I'll make up the difference. Two more to sell. That's a promise.'

'No. You'll bring me another full busload plus two _in one week.'_

'Where in hell do _I_ sit, in the driver's lap?!'

'I'd hate to hire another recruiter.'

Janice sighed. 'All right. _All right!_ I'll put chairs in the Goddamn aisle. We don't want you to lose any money.'

Jack smirked. ‘That's better. And remember, I want my full fee for every one of them.’

‘Of course, Jack. I could never forget that,’ she shot back at him. 'If you don't get paid, I don't get paid.'

'Go back and tend to our little flock. I'll be back in a few minutes. When the bus comes, make the big girl wait until I come back. Then you can board the bus.' 

Two hours later, a nearly-full, reconditioned, old school bus turned out of the church parking lot and headed to the docks, thirty miles away, where a blue yacht was moored.


	17. You're Not That Man Anymore

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Night had fallen. The Leverage team of five, temporarily reunited yet divided, torn by conflict and frustration with a case that refused to fall into place and by clients demanding the unthinkable, sat quietly around the table in the new conference room. The overall mood was somber.

Sophie broke the uneasy silence. ‘Nate, exactly what right do you have to wish someone dead? Even a criminal? Why would you say such a thing?’

He stared at her, nowhere near as drunk as he wanted to be, but mellow enough to lose his train of thought. ‘Hmmm? What?’

‘You said you were _all for_ the clients’ request that we actually murder Jack Renard! What right have you to say such a thing?!? With one of the boys being _his own son!_ _Oh, my God!_ That's not even what we do! This case is _insane!_ I wish I’d never agreed to it!! There’s no part for me to play _at all_ ; we can’t make _any_ of our cons work and I thought that was, well, damned near _impossible_ … it’s just… just... _OOOH!!!’_ Sophie screamed at the ceiling, balling her fists as tightly as her nails would allow.

Nate observed her tantrum calmly. ‘I must admit, initially, I rather thought it an intriguing case with parts for all of us to play, but now that we’re knee-deep in manure, no hip boots, not a bridge in sight, in a swamp as wide as the Mississippi and filled with alligators, I fear I concur. Hence my previous outburst. Although I must say, mine pales in comparison to yours.’

‘I think I know why he’s not protesting the idea, Sophie.’

Sophie looked at Eliot. Eliot exchanged a knowing glance with Nate.

‘You’re not going to share with the class?’

‘No, Sophie, I’m not,’ said Eliot. 

‘Proud to say _I’m_ gettin' back some _very_ interesting information on the financials,’ said Hardison, tapping furiously at his phone.

‘Well, at least _somebody’s_ making some headway!’ exclaimed Sophie. 

‘We'll deal with that later, Hardison,’ Parker said, quietly.

‘Yeah, your job's always the wrap-up, Hardison,’ said Eliot, irritably. ‘Assuming we have anything to wrap up. We’re all just wasting our time, making plans that go nowhere.’ Looking around the table, he was met with frowning stares; consternation on each face.

‘Why do you say that, Eliot?’ Nate asked evenly, calmly.

‘We’ve hit a brick wall. We can’t do a job on this guy. Why? He’s a conman, himself. He’ll see us coming a mile. Plus we have no leverage, do we? There's nothin' he wants. He's covered under a Traveler's umbrella called religion. Millions of people are guzzling his Kool-Aid. He’s fucking untouchable.’

‘We’ve done jobs on conmen before. Pretty big ones, too.’ Parker ventured. ‘Remember the Octopus?’

‘Shark, Babe,’ said Hardison, gently. ‘Greg _The Mako_ Sherman.’

‘Yeah, well, this one’s different,’ Eliot said, emphatically.

‘So if our hands are tied, like you say, _then_ what? We can’t turn him over to the authorities; that puts _us_ in a bad position. We’ve been doing business for years, but don’t forget, we’re _still hot!_ ’ Parker suddenly raised her voice, startling everyone.

Nate spoke up. ‘What’s _your_ solution, Eliot? Or do you have one?’

‘Yes. What our clients suggested, and apparently, you approve of.’ Eliot stared steadily at Nate.

Sophie spoke up, alarmed. ‘That’s _not_ an option, Eliot! You _can’t do that!’_

Eliot’s reply sent ice water through their veins. _‘Can’t I?’_

He rose from the table and stood almost menacingly over them. ‘Think past my situation for a minute. Sophie, you once told me, I’m _not that man anymore._ Maybe I'm not, but I’m willing to do this. I _know my job_. I can do it, undetected. Mrs. Mallory will get justice; that bastard won’t be drugging or killing anybody else; the church’ll be liquidated; Hardison can direct the money where it needs to go; these guys can live their lives in peace. And me? I can deal with it. Case closed.’

He put on his leather jacket and checked his pocket for his keys. 

‘Just where do you think you’re going?’ Sophie asked, alarmed.

‘Relax. I’m thinking of the last option we might have before things get messy. Nate, Parker, Hardison, Sophie... all of you… if you haven't found a solution by the time I get back... ’

'Sounds like you're running things, Eliot.'

'Yeah,' Parker seconded Nate.

'It does? I thought I was leaving the planning to the brains of the outfit - both of 'em. How's that goin' for ya?'

‘Seriously, where are you going, Eliot?’

‘I’m gonna try to dig up some dirt on this guy, Nate. If I can, we might stand a chance. Look, we know he’s dispensing a drug cocktail. Ok, from where? Does he cook it himself? I’m betting the answer is in that church and I’m gonna check it out. _Alone._ I work best alone and all of you know that. Takes the heat off you, so nothing to worry about, Parker. If I turn up some intel, maybe it’s as simple as an anonymous call to the DEA. Then all we gotta do is melt into the night and let them handle it. Drop this hot potato. It’s got us all on edge.’

‘Don’t act without thinking, Eliot,’ cautioned Nate.

‘Man… you could have gone all night without sayin' that.’

Eliot stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

**~~~~~**

After Eliot left, Hardison and Sophie rose uneasily from the table.

‘I don’t know what Eliot expects us to do. I mean, we’ve gone over everything. Again, and _again_ and _again_ … ‘ Sophie sighed. ‘I’m getting something to eat. In fact, has _anyone_ had dinner?’ 

A chorus of _No’s_ and the shaking of heads was her answer. 

‘You see? We’re too distracted to even eat!! I’ll make something.’ She wandered into the kitchen and began opening cabinets. ‘Let’s see, mac and cheese, surely there's have a box - ah, there it is. Let’s see, tomatoes, bread crumbs… and yes, a can of ham!’

‘I got things to do,’ said Hardison somberly, and slipped into his office. 

Parker sat on at the table with Nate. They could hear Sophie rummaging about in the kitchen.

‘Something bothering you, Parker?’ asked Nate. ‘You seem a little preoccupied.’

Parker nodded. ‘Something Eliot said. _He's covered under a Traveler's umbrella called religion. Millions of people are guzzling his Kool-Aid._ What did he mean?’

‘Parker, there’s religion... and then there’s _religion_. Some people rely on it to cope, to survive. Others are fine being simply guided while standing on their own two feet. The people who go totally wacko need a charismatic leader, or at least they think they do; someone to tell them every move to make; someone to interpret their holy book for them. They literally get to the point where they can't think for themselves. Some are so programmed they’ll run over a cliff like lemmings if their preacher tells them to. Eliot was talking about Jim Jones and Guyana. Ever hear of the Jonestown Massacre? No? Jones had everyone convinced that he had all the answers. He trapped his followers and eventually, when his house of cards finally fell, he ordered them to drink cyanide-laced punch. Nearly a thousand people died.’

Parker’s expressive face registered shock. 

‘That's basically brainwashing. _John of God_ runs a similar outfit,' Nate continued. 'But you know something, Parker? People don’t need religion. Not really. Religion needs people. Religions are just corporations. They need money to thrive, like any other. Religion in and of itself won’t make you a better person. Intelligence, empathy, and kindness will. Religion doesn’t feed the poor or tend the sick. Good people with big hearts do that.'

‘But, all this… I mean, all this _touching_. I don’t get it. How does touching give you power? I touch money all the time and I don't have any special power.’

‘I’ve seen you light up like a Christmas tree over it, Parker. Trust me, you have power.’ Nate grinned and winked at his former protégé.

‘I’m serious, Nate. I mean, I see it from his point of view, like you said, he’s programming them, but why would anybody believe that an ordinary man can just put his hands on people and heal them? I thought only Jesus could do that.’

‘It’s called _laying on of hands_ and it’s a very ancient practice. Its origins go back farther than the Bible because even the Navajo practiced it, ten thousand years ago. It means different things to different faiths. In Judaism, laying on of the hands meant conferring a blessing or authority. For Christians, it’s a symbolic method of invoking the Holy Spirit, which is said to give the power to heal.’

‘So apparently there’s something to it, then.’

‘I've heard it said.’

‘You’re religious, aren’t you, Nate?’

‘Once upon a time.’

‘Do you believe an ordinary man can make somebody well? Say, a legitimate, hands-on kind of preacher, not like _John of God_?’

‘If a legitimate, hands-on kind of preacher is also a skilled surgeon, yes, Parker.’

‘But,’ she persisted, ‘say I broke my ankle landing on an elevator. If I went to a preacher like him, a faith-healer, could he fix it just by touching it?’

'Parker…' Nate looked deeply into her blue eyes; eyes that had seen so much yet were still, even after managing Leverage, International for the past five years, as innocent as a child’s. ‘A faith-healer like you're talking about can indeed heal your ankle... but only after... '

‘Jesus comes back.’

Nate smiled and shook his head. ‘After that faith-healer resurrects Dubenich from the grave.’

That silenced Parker’s questions. She understood.

‘I think Sophie has something for us to eat. Why don’t you go get Hardison? I think our time will be better spent getting some nourishment while we wait for Eliot.’ 

Nate ambled over to the bar. Parker's questions had been answered; her spirits lifted. He needed his crutch to lift his. He didn't know what his Hitter was truly planning to do.


	18. Intolerable Acts

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_It’s got us all on edge. That’s an understatement_ , Eliot thought as he headed in the direction of the old stadium. Never could he remember a time when the team was so disorganized or less unified. Nate stepping back into his old role, even on a temporary basis, had so far been detrimental to the team. Damn sure didn't need his drunken ass stumbling around... he and Sophie had been bickering... he and Parker had butted heads more than once since they started this gig. Hardison had done well to remain cool, calm, and detached from the drama. Had to hand it to that boy; he'd done nothing but concentrate on his piece of the puzzle, but _Leverage International_ was in danger of imploding.

Damned if he’d allow that. The thing to do was get this case wrapped up, find the drugs, figure a solution for their clients and go from there. Eliot wasn't usually one for talk, but this situation screamed for a conference: an old-fashioned, CEO suit-and-tie type of sit-down-with-sandwiches-and-coffee... and a beer... conference.

None of the church parking lot lights were on; he'd expected that. There was a bright moon and the sign in front was softly aglow from a spotlight hidden in the bushes. He killed his own lights before entering the driveway. Keeping to the perimeter, he did a slow sweep of the entire area before approaching the building. In the rear, a one-lane driveway veering off the parking lot dipped steeply, running beneath the building and coming up the other side. This was the delivery entrance. The structure was likely similar to another such stadium at which he’d attended games in years past: an arena, a lower level, and a basement, maybe even a sub-basement. As he cruised past, he peered into the darkness. Moonlight pierced the gloom, illuminating a chrome bumper. A car was parked in the delivery bay. He drove on, headlights still off, passing the glass double doors of the rear entrance. He parked in the shadows of some overgrown bushes nearby.

The rear doors beckoned but he was more interested in the car parked beneath the building. Running lightly, he leaped a low hedge and maneuvered down the steep, grassy slope to the curb. The Lincoln Towncar had outdated but useful manual locks; useful because he had the car open in a matter of seconds and was inspecting it the interior. Papers in the glove box confirmed what he already knew. The car belonged to Jack Renard -but no clues regarding the whereabouts of the drugs could be found. 

He left the back car doors unlocked and with another of his pocket tools, persuaded the creaky old service door to open. 

A long, tiled corridor led to a kitchen and a storage area. This lower level, beneath the stadium seating and stage, was a labyrinth of rooms, showers and lockers, all evidence of the building’s former occupation. Here, there were no security cameras. Had there been, they were no match for Hardison, nor were the ones on the stadium seating level. All Eliot had to do was locate the drugs. If Jack was here alone or with security goons, he’d take that as it came. He kept systematically searching the lower level, fully expecting to find the drug lab with Jack in it, cooking up his special _Dr. Feel-Good_ stew.

He found nothing.

Then, it seemed, right under his feet, he heard what sounded like a metal door clink open and shut. An image, unbidden, flashed through his mind: hired by a black market dealer in 2005 to retrieve a valuable piece called the Sapphire Monkey in North Korea, he had been captured and thrown into a metal dungeon. 

He shook the memory off. There was another floor beneath this one. He had to find access to it.

Faint footsteps echoed on an unseen stairway to his left. A door opening and shutting; keys rattling. Eliot followed the sounds, ducking into a dark corner when the footsteps grew louder. Jack Renard, unaware, strolled right past Eliot. The rather stale air stirred by the big man’s body as he passed carried with it a strange myriad of odors: vinegar mingled with sweat, body odor, the peculiar sweet-sour smell of aniseed and cheap perfume. Several of those particular scents were indicative of the very drugs he knew Jack was making, thanks to Hardison's expertise. The lab was down below. 

Using a small flashlight, Eliot retraced Jack’s steps. He easily picked the door lock and followed the stairway down into an unlit room, directing the small flashlight’s beam about. The floor was wood. The ceiling was low enough to touch. Oddly, a small fire extinguisher’s base rested on the floor although it hung from a hook in the wall.

 _False floor,_ he thought. _Room added below. Shrewd, but that fire extinguisher is a dead giveaway_. The chain from an old-fashioned light switch tapped his face. He pulled it. Light from a bare bulb blinded him for a moment, revealing what was essentially the top half of a garage-sized room. The floor consisted of planks. Eliot knelt to examine it more closely. _Somebody laid this fairly recently._

Several feet away he could see a trapdoor built into the floor. He raised it by its chain and latched it to a corresponding hook hung from the ceiling. Directly beneath was a retractable set of wooden steps. Another chain allowed the steps to be lowered.

Slowly, he descended the creaky wooden steps. He walked a few feet further in. By the glow of the light on the floor above, he saw a row of three metal cages of the type used for dog kennels, each one no more than six cubic feet, along one wall. Huddled on wooden benches were four young women; two per cage. The third cage contained one girl seated with her back to him, leaning against the bars.

Eliot’s breath left his lungs. **_My God!_**

Hardison's words echoed in his mind. _His portfolio seems to have grown lately; still looking at his financials to track down the reason._

'Man, I think I found the reason, Hardison,' he whispered, his voice quivering. He aimed his light into the cages. The girls seemed in a daze. Their clothes were rags; covered buckets provided the only sanitation they had. The girl in the third cage gasped and spun around. She seemed to be more alert than the others.

‘Hey - don’t be afraid,' Eliot assured her. 'I’m gettin' you outta here. All of you. But you gotta tell me, where did that son of a bitch go? Do you know?’

The girl squinted against the light. She couldn't see the figure behind it but the voice was reassuring. 'He went to his office,' she whispered, quivering. 'Something about a safe.'

'I'll be back! I'm leaving the light on!' Eliot started back up the steps.

'Wait!' the girl called after him. 'There are _two_ offices! One's the mission room - the other one's next door to the nursery!'

It didn't matter. Eliot wasn't going to either one. 

**~~~~~**

Jack Reynard fastened his safety belt and, grunting from the effort, settled himself in the seat of his car. He started the engine and drove up the incline of the delivery bay toward the parking lot. Just as he was about to accelerate to drive to the access road a deep, rasping voice came from behind his seat, startling him so badly he wet his underwear.

‘Stop the car. Leave it running; just put it in park.’

Jack instantly complied. His blood pressure was rising; his respiration increasing. Sweat popped out all over his heavily-jowled face.

'Good. That's good.'

Jack sat nervously awaiting other instructions from the unseen presence. A series of odd, rubber-like squeaks and a sound like a rubber band snapping broke the silence. It was too much to bear.

‘Wh- what do you- what's wrong? What do you want with me?’ he stuttered, breathlessly.

‘Well, you know…’ Eliot talked almost companionably now, in a normal tone of voice. 'We were planning to take ya down. We knew you were dealin' drugs. Haven’t found those yet, but we will. My team and I, we were gonna run a con on ya. Outsmart ya.’ Eliot shook his head. ‘Didn’t work.’

‘Who’s _we_?’ Jack asked in consternation, twisting around. ‘What didn’t work? Are you a cop?!’

‘Sit straight in your seat. Look straight ahead… That’s better. Look, man, it's ok. I know you’re a preacher. I need you to do somethin' for me. I need the names of your traffickers. Just intel, that's all. You give me that and I’ll do somethin' for ya. Is that fair?’

‘I give you names, you let me, let me go?’

‘Yep. I'll release ya. But I need all of ‘em. All the names, phone numbers, anything you can think of.’

Still rattled but somewhat relieved, Jack provided several names, numbers, and details. He heard Eliot jotting them all down. He heard the pen click closed and a leather jacket rustle as Eliot stuffed the pen and paper in his pocket.

‘Okay now?’ Jack asked hopefully. 'Is that what you wanted?'

Eliot’s voice was deceptively smooth. ‘Sure, Jack.'

'Can I go, now? Please?' Jack's voice wavered; he could feel Eliot's hot breath on his neck.

'Lemme just say one more thing... y'know, the Man y'call y'self servin' all these years... _I_ know now what we couldn't give ya that'cha wanted. I bet you’d like to talk to 'im, Jack. In person. Explain what’s been goin' on... have a chance to square things with the Man... wouldn’t you? Tell you what... _I'm gonna give you that chance.’_

Striking with the speed of a rattler, Eliot aimed a strong fingertip at a square inch of skin on the side of Jack’s neck, delivering a powerful blow directly to the vagus nerve, stopping Jack's heart and respiration instantly. Jack slumped in his seat. Eliot slipped the gear into drive and swiftly exited the car. Without Jack’s foot on the accelerator, the car idled slowly ahead, coming to rest at last on one of the wheel stops. It had been a clean kill. No evidence. An apparent coronary.

_Not the law nor any con we pulled would've brought this to justice. It had to be me. My justice. Justice for them._

Eliot turned and walked back to the church. He tapped his phone. ‘Nate, bring the team to the church. I need some help on this one.’

‘What, did you find the drugs?’

‘Just hurry up and get here. _Now!’_


	19. Absolution and Gratitude

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

With tools from his car, Eliot managed to pop the doors on the cages. He guided the girls up the steps, one by one, and herded them into the kitchen. He looked at each one, checking their eyes and pinching skin on their hands. 'You're all dehydrated - drink plenty of water,' he instructed them. 'For now, just stay on those benches. I've got help coming.'

'I'm all right,' said the tallest one. 'My name's Darcy. I haven't been here long. I'll help take care of them until you get back.'

The other four girls were cowed, terrified and filthy. Darcy checked the cabinets and found some plastic glasses. She filled them and handed them around. All of them huddled on the benches, unsure of what was happening. ‘I think we’re ok now,’ Darcy told them. ‘I think we’ll be ok.’

The others remained silent, content to have enough water for the time being.

‘Keep ‘em here, Darcy!’ Eliot ordered. He ran to the main floor to meet Nate, Hardison, Parker and Sophie.

He swiftly explained that while he had found no drugs, there was clear evidence of sex trafficking, that the girls needed help and that he wanted to talk to Nate - alone. He directed Sophie and Parker to the kitchen, then stalked down the aisle and took a seat in the choir section where pews were lined up in front of a stained glass window.

Hardison set out to take care of the security cameras. Sophie and Parker found their way to the kitchen. With Darcy's help, they brought the girls to the Mission Room where they could lie down on the couches. They made the rescued girls as clean and comfortable as possible; choir robes from the dressing rooms served as garments.

‘How long have all of you been locked down there?’ Sophie asked.

‘A week - maybe two - we’ve lost track of time. He fed us but we’re still awful hungry. We - we were his- ’

‘We know,’ said Parker, strangely calm. Long ago, she had been in similar circumstances. She had survived it. So would they.

Sophie, knowing the team didn't have time to send out for pizzas, said, ‘Let’s get you something to eat after you see a doctor. Food might interfere with treatment.’ She then explained that ambulances would be there soon to take them to hospitals. Neither Sophie nor Parker mentioned that police would be involved, no doubt, to either return them to their families or place them with foster homes. No sense in scaring them yet; they'd been through enough.

Nate knocked on the door. 'How are they, Sophie?'

Sophie slipped through the door to talk to him. 'Dehydrated; hungry, all right for now, considering. I'm sure once the drugs wear off they'll need counseling. We'll stay with them for now.'

'That's a relief. I'm going to talk to Eliot.'

Sophie nodded and went back into the room.

**~~~~~**

Nate walked down the long aisle and companionably sat beside Eliot on the wooden pew.

‘Eliot... I probably already know this, but who in the hell did all _this_ with these girls?' Nate asked. He suspected, but was hesitant to actually believe it.

'Jack Renard,' Eliot replied, evenly. He sat looking out over the arena, at the thousands of seats which represented thousands of people that were going to be in for a rude shock, come Sunday.

'Are you saying that in addition to drugging and killing people, _John of God_ was involved in _trafficking?!'_

‘Man of many talents. Considering the circumstances, Nate, I wouldn't refer to him by that name.'

'Where is he now?'

Eliot's eyes stared into Nate's. ‘In his car... in the parking lot.’

'You came looking for drugs and found all this. And you're sure he did it.'

Eliot nodded.

Nate hesitated before he asked. ‘Was it self-defense?’

‘No.’

Nate merely nodded. ‘Cops’ll find him and draw their own conclusions.’

‘Yep.’

'You did what you had to do, Eliot.'

'I said I could deal with it, Nate.'

'Doesn't look to me as if that's working for ya.'

'Listen, first things first - we gotta get these girls taken care of and close up this demonic mausoleum.'

'We will - we're gonna pass that ball to law enforcement. They have longer and more powerful arms than we do. They can hunt down those other girls. As for the building itself... you know, Eliot, evil lurks in every place on earth. Let's put this building to good use for now until it's had a chance to redeem itself. Look at that window behind you.'

Eliot swiveled in his seat, glanced at the stained-glass piece of art depicting Christ, and shrugged.

'You once told me about this kid who had God in his heart, a flag on his shoulder, and clean hands,' Nate continued. 'Did you ever reconnect with him?'

Eliot shook his head.

'Well... if nothing else, I think you did God a favor today. He owes you one. Ten years of good work tips the scales in the right direction… ' Nate indicated the window with his thumb. 'And he's a lurker, too, y'know.'

Nate got up and walked the long aisle back to the church entrance. Glancing back, he saw Eliot sit motionless for long moments before he leaned forward on the pew in front and put his head on his arms.

Nate left to check on the others.

**~~~~~**

Parker, wearing gloves, had already expertly opened the safe. Inside were stacks upon stacks of money, incriminating records, and vials of drugs - enough evidence to prove Jack Renard's activities in drug dealing and sex trafficking.

'Leave it all there, Parker,' said Nate. 'I just wanted to verify what I already knew.’

'Leave it? Even the money?'

'Yep - we gotta let the police take this one.'

Parker sighed and replaced the items back in the safe.

Hardison had found and hacked the cameras, deleting the video history. 'It was a snap. Obsolete technology. Ol’ _Johnny-god_ wasn’t much on security, after all. Wait, did you just say we gonna let the **po** -lice take this one?'

'Part of it, anyway. You'll take care of Jack's personal finances and help the two clients liquidate all those holdings. That goes to them. We'll see what else can be done on our end. What’s been happening here has to go public. I don't know of a better way to shut down this particular church; even Jack's entire operation; world-wide. I wouldn't doubt all his "missions" are cover for a very big trafficking operation.'

Eliot came into the office just as Sophie was about to report on the girls. ‘The one named Darcy was talking to the others and it turns out they all have similar stories. A woman named Miller hired them for some kind of “Peace Corps” job and brought them here. Some left on a bus that was going to take them to a ship. Jack singled out these particular girls for his own use and kept them under control by drugging them. One of them said Jack used what he called "Blessed Ointment" to make her feel better - in other words, more compliant.'

Eliot consulted the list he wrote from Jack's information. 'I have some intel on a _Janice Miller_.'

‘That may be her. I’d suggest putting that list in the safe. Could prove helpful to the police. I’m sure you’ve wiped it for prints.’

Eliot nodded, rolling his eyes at Sophie.

‘Speaking of Darcy, she was asking for you. Why don’t you go talk to her? To all of them? Might do them some good.’

Eliot nodded. Abruptly, he turned and left.

‘Is everything all right?’ Sophie asked.

Nate, perched on Jack’s gleaming desk, nodded. ‘He’ll be fine.’

**~~~~~**

Eliot knocked on the door of the room still plastered with posters promising a bright and hopeful future. Five girls, rescued from that duplicitous promise, huddled together, waiting for what came next.

‘Did my friend Sophie talk to you?’

They nodded.

'So I guess you know by now all of you were kidnapped by a sex trafficking ring,' he lectured. 'There’s no such thing as **_Working for Our World Missions_**. You were going to be sold overseas. Maybe end up in a Singapore brothel. Do you have any idea what that would have been like - the kind of life you would have had?!' Eliot found himself raising his voice in anger. He was scaring them. One of the girls began sobbing. ‘Look, I just want you to stop and think,’ he continued in a softer tone. ‘Do some research, ask questions, before you blindly go off with some stranger. _It’s a tough world out there.’_

‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused, sniffling.

'We have people coming to take care of you. Tell them what happened and who did this to you.'

The rest of the team entered the room. 'We’ll call 9-1-1 for you now,' said Nate. 'You girls stay here.'

'And he means _stay here_ ,' Eliot said gruffly. 'Don’t budge from this room!'

The five girls slowly got up off the couches and gathered around the team, taking turns to hug each one: Parker, Sophie, even Nate and Hardison. Eliot backed away, standing off to the side, still scowling. The youngest of the five, a girl of about twelve, had been tightly gripping some sort of toy the entire time. She cautiously approached Eliot, took his hand and gently laid it in his palm.

‘Thank you,’ she said shyly, and rested her head against his chest for a moment before she ran back to join the others. He closed his fist over the gift.

‘Good luck,’ said Parker, who was the last one out the door.

Darcy spoke up. ‘Wait! What should we tell them about all of you?’

‘Just tell them some good guys rescued you,’ said Parker.

**~~~~~**

Parker rode back with Nate and Sophie. Sitting in Eliot's car, Hardison placed an anonymous call to 9-1-1 and explained the situation carefully to the dispatcher. She was adamant that Hardison stay on the line with her; he was just as adamant that he should hang up. After he had argued for a few minutes, insisting that ambulances, police and even the DEA were required for an emergency at a location well known and not at all hard to find and no, this wasn't a crank call, he could finally hear the sirens from the vehicles she dispatched coming their way. Eliot, sitting at the wheel and awaiting the word to go, took a moment to dig the gift he had received out of his pocket and look at it.

Hardison looked up. ‘Hey, what’d she give you, man?’ he asked, curiously.

Eliot held it up. It was a Marvel Avengers, Captain America action figure. Hardison’s dark eyes grew wide with envy.

‘She gave it to _me_ , Hardison. You can’t have it. _Are we good to go?!’_

Hardison nodded. Eliot gunned the engine and sped out of the parking lot. By the time several ambulances turned into the drive, Eliot and Hardison were well out of sight and on their way back to Headquarters.

By the time the first police car pulled up, Jack Renard’s car had used the last drops of gas in its tank. The engine sputtered and died.


	20. Resolutions and Conclusions

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

A few weeks later, Parker and Nate sat with Hardison in front of his array of wall screens, deep in discussion about the culmination of the case they had shared. Initially, the team had been tempted to call it _The Un-Case_ but decided on _The Hands-On Job_. Sophie, however, had taken refuge in the workings of her former student Zachary’s latest theater production at The Devereaux; she’d had enough. _I'll check back with you this evening_ , was all she'd said.

Hardison thumbed through the screens, showing Parker and Nate all the data he had amassed both during and after the scope of the job.

‘The DEA found the drug lab in another room in the basement in addition to the stash we found in the safe. I don’t think they’ve had time to add up the street value yet… must be...’

‘Eleventy billion, I imagine,’ Nate joked. ‘And just how, may I ask, did you manage to hack into the DE... never mind… I don’t need to know.’ Nate shook his head, still in awe of his former protégé’s abilities.

‘So... Eliot was right. Well, I’m sure he would’ve found it, eventually. He got sidetracked with the girls.’

'The FBI reports three of those girls have been all returned to their homes; two were put back into foster care.’

‘How about the big girl? The one named Darcy?’ Parker inquired.

‘She was reunited with her family in Cincinnati, Babe. Seems she was glad to be home, even if home wasn’t where she wanted to be.’

‘Looks like Eliot’s talk had some effect,’ said Parker. Hardison glanced at her quizzically. ‘I overheard him; he was really _yelling_ at them.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Nate, smirking.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, Parker, I was just imagining Eliot as the father of teenage girls.’

Parker rolled her eyes.

‘So were you able to determine if any more deaths from members of the church were drug-related?’

‘Naw, man, that’s beyond my scope. I did check hospital records within the timeframe of church services going back a year… nothing. I mean, that was _a big congregation_. Digging up those cases; you’re talking formal inquiries, exhumations which most families ain’t gonna go for, forensic tests, I mean, let ‘em rest in peace, man. Dude’s dead. He paid for what he did.’

Nate nodded. ‘If it hadn’t been for her son, Mrs. Mallory’s death would have gone undetected.’

‘Where are all those people gonna go to church _now?’_

‘Trust me, Parker, they’ll find ways. I just hope they find _better_ ways,’ Nate remarked, hopefully.

‘Speaking of Mrs. Mallory, I took care of Kam’s financial problems _and_ Marc’s… minus our cut, of course,' said Hardison.

‘Of course. Usual generous percentage, I hope. And Jack Renard’s death?’

‘Police report says he was leaving the scene of the crime when he had a coronary. “Found in his car, dead.” The police have already notified his son. Poor guy already suspected the drug thing; they had to break it to him about the sex trafficking. Must have been a shock.'

‘I feel for the kid... suspecting his own father was a criminal... and then finding out that wasn’t the worst thing about him.’ Nate shook his head regretfully.

Parker spoke up. ‘Yeah, well... at least _we_ didn't have to tell him.’

‘You know, as much as this case might have sucked, it had its merit. There's a whole new field of criminality to pursue. A _plethora of patterns of perfidy_ , Hardison.’ Nate grinned at his Hacker.

‘Yeah, there’s that,' Hardison affirmed, grinning back.

'There is that.'

'Marc and Kam, aren’t they coming today?' Parker asked.

'Yeah, Babe, I called 'em; they’ll be here within the hour. Best get down there.'

'Where’s Eliot?'

'Hidin’ in the kitchen.'

'I seriously doubt he’s hiding, Hardison.'

**~~~~~**

It was the final meeting between clients and their Leverage, Int'l. consultants. Kamron Mallory arrived, accompanied by Marc Reynard. Hardison, _AKA Alec Whitmore_ , stepped forward and welcomed his client warmly; Nate did the same for Marc. Parker, of course, was still under her alias of _Lucy Whitmore._

‘Glad you guys came, we wanted to wind this up for you both,’ said Nate.

Marc spoke first. ‘What I... what we _both_ wanted was... was done. Maybe not exactly like we _planned_ …’

Nate and Parker exchanged glances. The boys had wanted Jack killed; now they thought he died of a heart attack. Either way, the job was done. 

‘... but, well, first things first. We have an announcement, and who better to hear it first than those who had our backs? We’re getting married next week! You’re all invited!’

‘That’s wonderful news!’

‘Congratulations!’

Hardison high-fived each of them.

‘Thanks. So... here we are, as requested. How do we stand on our case?’

Hardison took the lead. ‘We have good news for _you, too_ , and I hope it'll throw some sunlight on the raincloud you’ve been living under. Kamron, your mother’s expenses and funeral costs; the money taken from her by the church and your student loan.. they’re all paid... free and clear. Kam, you can get your degree now with no strings attached, and if you want to go higher, you can. And Marcus, we located some offshore accounts of your, uh, your dad's, and we transferred the monies into an account set up in your name. The private property, of course, is yours to do with as you wish; that comes to you in the will.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Kam. He turned to Marc. ‘What do you think you’ll do with all of it, Babe?’

 _‘Do_ with it? Who the hell _needs_ it? We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? You're not gonna tell me we need a couple of planes, are ya?’ Marc teased.

Kam laughed. 'I don't have time for flying lessons. I gotta get my degree.'

‘There ya go.' Marc directed his attention to Nate. 'As you know, Mr. Ford, the authorities are handling part of the estate. They’re keeping the blue yacht for evidence; the jewelry and some stuff out of the mansion. However, the other yacht; the planes, the cars, all that other shit will be liquidated. We certainly don’t need that enormous house either; in fact, I’m donating it as a shelter for the homeless as soon as the yellow tape comes down. As for the church... I hear an NBA-affiliated minor league, what they call a G-League, needs a property; I hope they turn it back into a stadium. _Thank God_ I never have to set foot in that place again!’

‘Sounds like you’re making a diamond out of a chunk of coal, Marc,’ Nate smiled at him. 'What, uh, whatever happened to Henry, by the way?'

'Dad's valet? The thorn in my side practically all my life? My nemesis? I fired his ass. The District Attorney's had him in for questioning. He may bring charges as an accessory.'

'All's well that ends well, then,' said Nate. 

‘We hope our efforts help you two build a good future,’ said Parker. She turned to Nate. ‘Have we ever worked a case with two separate clients before?’

Nate shrugged. There were too many cases to remember. ‘Probably not like this one.’

‘We thought that was kinda funny,' said Marc. 'You guys had two clients and we had two consultants and you didn’t know we were a couple and we didn’t know you were a firm. Just know that we appreciate all you’ve done, Mr. Ford; Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore. We can live together in peace, now. Do you know this is the first time we’ve been able to say that? _We’re together_. Now, thanks to you, with all this resolved and with what you’ve provided for us, we can go anywhere we want, we can marry and live where we’re accepted. We’ve even talked about adopting. We can build a future together.’

‘We can’t thank you enough,’ said Kam. 'We'll let you know when and where for the wedding.'

After a final round of handshakes and hugs, the young couple left.

'Are we a firm?' asked Parker.

'In a manner of speaking,' Hardison replied.

Nate spoke up. ‘OK, it’s safe for you to come out now, Eliot.’

The graveled voice could be heard behind the closed door of the kitchen. ‘I’m helpin' Amy restock the bar inventory, Nate!’ Eliot stuck his head out the door. 'I'm not hiding! That's stupid!'

‘You’re lurking.’

‘Call it what you want, Hardison!’

‘They wouldn’t have condemned, you, anyway... you know that. They don't know that you actually- ’

 _‘Change the record, Nate!’_ Eliot ducked back into the kitchen.

Nate placed his hands on the table in a gesture of finality. ‘Who’s hungry? What is there to eat? I'm starving. We’re closed to the public, right?’

‘Am _I_ the public?’ Sophie pulled the door open just in time to hear Nate's words, after which she ostensibly locked it and turned the door sign to _CLOSED_.

‘Welcome!’ Nate enthused. ‘How goes _The Tempest?_ Are you playing Miranda?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nate! I’m directing!’

Nate put his hand to his chest and recited, _Let me live here ever! So rare a wondered father and a wife, makes this place paradise!’_

‘Ah, my bonnie prince! Using the Oxford reference!’

‘I have to be _careful_ around _you_.’ Nate pulled out a chair for her.

‘Does this mean they’re making up?’ Parker whispered to Hardison.

‘Wait for it, Babe. Let’s wait for it.’

Eliot joined them presently. All five of the old team were finally together again, sitting companionably around the largest table, sampling new craft beers and wines, and dipping into a large array of snacks Amy brought out for them. In the old days, they would have congratulated themselves on the success of a case; in this instance, just tying up all the loose ends alone had been quite an accomplishment.

‘Parker,’ said Nate, ‘It almost felt like old times.’

‘Could be _new_ times,’ Parker enthused. She had commandeered, all for herself, a plate of diced squares pierced with decorative toothpicks. _‘MMMMM,_ these are _good!’_ she exclaimed.

‘And you?’ Nate asked Sophie, slipping his arm around her shoulders. She smiled warmly at him.

‘A nice diversion, even if it didn’t go as planned; even if I didn’t get to dip my toes in a new character. At least we were able to be of _some_ help.’

‘That part felt real,’ said Eliot.

‘Genuine,’ added Sophie.

‘So why don’t you guys stop messing around and come back to the team?’ Parker rather bluntly asked, talking with her mouth full. ‘We can share the lead. We could make it work.’

Eliot, seated next to her, caught a whiff of her breath and did a double-take. His eyebrows rushed down to the bridge of his nose. There was something nauseatingly familiar about that particular porcine odor. While everyone else was looking around the table trying to decide how to respond to Parker’s outspoken question, Eliot got to his feet. Grabbing Parker’s plate away from her, he shoved it under Hardison’s nose.

_‘Dammit, Hardison!!_ Is this what I _think_ it is?’

 _‘Hey!’_ Parker protested, snatching the plate from Eliot’s hand. _’Give it back!’_

Hardison leaned back in his chair, grinning, clasping his hands behind his short-cropped head. ‘Could be,’ he admitted, ‘but in case you hadn't noticed, Parker _loves_ it.’

Parker nodded affirmation, cramming another toothpick-speared block into her mouth.

‘Is there a problem, children?’ Nate chimed in as Eliot sat down, glowering. The thundercloud over his head was nearly visible.

‘Now, you see? This is what I meant. We miss that quality about you. We need you back, Nate. You and Sophie both,’ said Parker.

Nate looked at Sophie.

Sophie looked at Nate.

‘What do you guys think about Marc and Kam? Are we all going to the wedding?’ Nate queried, skillfully and swiftly changing the subject.

 _‘I’m_ going. I’m happy for them,’ said Parker.

‘It’s cool, man,’ said Hardison. ‘I’ll be there.'

‘Eliot? What are your thoughts?’ asked Sophie.

Their perpetually disgruntled Hitter again got up from the table. ‘If they invited me, I’m goin'! I got no problem with it. The only problem I got is Hardison _screwing up the menu again.’_ He stared at the Hacker, who read his thunderous expression accurately: they weren’t done with the subject. Not by a long shot. 

Eliot stalked back to the kitchen. ‘Now that we’ve wound up _The Hand Job,_ I’m gonna go make us some pizza!’

‘ _Hands- **On** Job,_ Eliot!’ Nate called after him.

Eliot’s voice echoed back: _**‘Whatever!’** _

Sophie sighed contentedly. ‘Well… like an old TV show making a comeback, here we are, all together again. I’ve heard producers say you can’t capture lightning in a bottle twice. I say you can. So, Nate, will this end up being your last job? Or not?’

Nate leaned back in his chair, contemplating.

‘My Nana always said _idle hands are the devil’s workshop_.’

‘I’ve heard that too, Hardison.’

‘You know, you never were a thief, Nate. Your heart wasn’t in it.’

‘Well, it is now, Sophie.’

Parker and Hardison both reached for the last square of _Kip Kap_. Gallantly, Hardison offered it to her. Chewing on the exotic morsel, Parker again talked with her mouth full. ‘Can you work without drinking?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Sophie, cryptically.

‘I always thought he was less creepy when he drank.’

Nate glanced at Parker quizzically, cocking an eyebrow at her.

‘I think you’re sending him mixed signals, Parker,’ Sophie snickered. ‘What is it we used to say?’ Sophie furrowed her brow in an effort to remember. 'Oh yes, _now_ I remember. _Let’s go break the law just one last time._ Is that right?’

‘That’s it,’ said Hardison.

‘Yep,’ said Parker.

‘ _Yeah_ , Sophie!’ Eliot had been listening from the kitchen all this time.

Sophie pushed back a lock of Nate’s unruly, curly, graying hair. 'So. What say you, Nate?’

  
  


  
  
  
  


[ _Open New Tab To Play Theme_ ](https://archive.org/details/tvtunes_17394)

  
  
  
  
  


THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> The laying on of hands is a ritual that is a part of religious practices found in various cultures throughout the world.
> 
> Name meanings:  
> 'Reynard the Fox.' The given name Reynard is from Reginhard, Raginohardus 'strong in counsel'. Because of the popularity of the Reynard stories, 'renard' became the standard French word for 'fox', replacing the old French word for 'fox', which was 'goupil' from Latin vulpecula. 'Mallory' actually began as a masculine surname in England. It originated from an old French nickname 'malheure' meaning 'unlucky, unfortunate' – a nickname that was generally bestowed upon a person of unfortunate or ill-fated circumstances.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tempest
> 
> Research has shown that it is impossible to mix certain drugs into a topical ointment - except by the author, who had to get inventive; also, the time element in processing chemical analysis is shortened; both plot devices for story purposes only. 
> 
> Any other errors detected by readers should be reported to me. I will do my best to correct them, and I appreciate the notice.
> 
> With thanks to all those who have helped me with this opus!


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